


A Question of Honour

by MizJoely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Historicalock, Sherlolly - Freeform, revolutionary war AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-02-15 16:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2236254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Revolutionary War AU. Colonial spy Molly Hooper is caught sneaking into the quarters of British Army Captain Sherlock Holmes and is saved from hanging only by his assertion that she's actually his mistress. However, once she and the handsome enemy captain are forced to spend time alone in his quarters, will the lie become the truth?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wrong Place, Wrong Time

**Autumn 1778**

Captain Sherlock Holmes, officer in His Majesty's Army, swung wearily down from the saddle before handing the horse off to the private waiting to assist him. The youngster – a lad of barely fifteen, possibly only fourteen, originally from Nottingham but living at least half his life in Wokingham before enlisting – saluted him, took the reins, handed him a note, and disappeared before Sherlock could question him regarding its contents, had he wished to.

As it was, he barely glanced at it before stuffing it into a pocket and plodding over to the town's single tavern, which his commanding officer, Colonel Sebastian Moran, had taken over as his headquarters when they'd been stationed here six months earlier. He was exhausted from patrolling half the night, but at least this latest circuit had resulted in no loss of life on either side of the battle lines; there had been no ambushes, no skirmishes, not so much as a single sighting of a rebel soldier – much to his secret relief. This blasted war had little more than a year of life left in it, unless he was very much mistaken, and it had become apparent to him in the past eight months that it was not going to end in King George's favour.

With any luck the summons was good news on that front; perhaps the higher echelons had finally come to their collective senses and were prepared to concede the Colonials’ ownership of the New World, as many still called it. He stifled a grunt of annoyance as he snapped off an answering salute to the soldiers guarding the tavern, weary unto death of the formalities of army life, longing for nothing more than for it all to be over so he could resign his commission and return to London. A pity his mistress would no longer be waiting for him, as a recent missive from his elder brother had informed him of their impending nuptials – bastard always had to take what belonged to Sherlock and keep it for himself even if it was something he didn't really want – but the comforts of home still called.

Even the comforts of his quarters here in Marlborough, in the colony of Massachusetts, would be preferable to a meeting with Moran, but duty called and Sherlock had had the demands of duty drilled into him since early childhood. One day he vowed to find a way to escape the emotional chains that bound him to his unpleasant family (well, except for his widowed mother, of course, the woman was a saint to put up with her two surly sons for so long without entirely losing her mind) and the land of his birth, but that day was unlikely to be today.

Or so he believed. If he'd known that such disgruntled thoughts were about to be answered as if they were prayers offered up to a God he no longer believed in, he might have schooled them better.

Or perhaps not; Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not unafraid of taking chances. And the chance that was about to befall him was something he never could have anticipated. He opened the door and entered the tavern, entirely unaware of what fate had in store for him.

 

oOo

“Captain Holmes, good of you to join us, and apologies for not allowing you time to refresh yourself, but as you can see, it is a matter of utmost importance that requires your attention.” Colonel Moran nodded toward the young woman standing, stiff and silent, hands bound in front of her by rope rather than iron manacles – her wrists were far too delicate to be contained by cuffs meant for larger, far more masculine prisoners – and her cinnamon-coloured hair somewhat mussed beneath the white mobcap. There was a darkening bruise on one cheek, and his own cheek twitched at the sight of that abuse. Even a prisoner had rights, especially a female prisoner, but this damned war made savages of even the most civilized men the longer it endured.

It came as something of an unpleasant surprise when he realized he knew the young lady. Not well, and certainly not socially, but nevertheless he knew her. She was from the market village of Baxton, seven miles east of Marlborough, and he'd purchased vegetables from her on several occasions, usually carrots for his horse. They'd spoken once or twice, introduced themselves to one another when it became apparent that he preferred the produce she had for sale to that of her competitors, but it had never gone beyond that most casual and businesslike of acquaintances.

That, he believed, was the extent of his knowledge of Miss Molly Hooper. Well, aside from the fact that she was an orphan living with an aunt, freckled easily in the sun and remained unmarried in spite of being reasonably attractive, hard-working and over the age of twenty (although not by more than one or two years, thus making her ten years younger than himself).

Yes, that was all he knew of her, except for the reason for her presence here today. She was clearly a Colonial spy, which next conclusion was borne out by Colonel Moran’s next words. “Inform Captain Holmes as to the circumstances under which our ‘guest’ was apprehended,” he ordered the young sergeant standing next to her.

James Moriarty appeared quite eager to do so, beneath the poker-faced façade he always maintained while on duty. The young Irishman wasn’t the only guard Miss Hooper had; Sherlock’s own corpsman, Corporal William 'Billy' Wiggins, stood on her other side, looking decidedly uncomfortable and either unwilling or unable to meet his superior officer’s gaze. Interesting, that, something to discuss with the younger man at a later time.

After Moran’s aide-de-camp had had his say.

As the sergeant told his story, Sherlock listened carefully while at the same time taking in the details of the other occupants of the large front room of the tavern, chiefly the camp's medical officer and his own good friend, Captain John Watson. John was standing a bit apart from the other gathered officers, hands behind his back and standing rigidly at attention in contrast to the more relaxed pose of the other officers. Officers intended to act as witnesses, Sherlock realized, in case a tribunal was required. He exchanged a brief glance with John, whose brows were lowered in a familiar expression of suppressed anger, then returned his attention to Sergeant Moriarty.

“This woman was seen entering your quarters while you were on patrol, sir,” the noncom reported, his face as bland and unreadable as ever. “When Corporal Wiggins investigated, he discovered her rifling through your papers and brought her before the Colonel upon suspicion of her being a spy, sir.” His Irish accent was strong today, indicating his excitement at the situation. No doubt looking forward to a chance to interrogate the spy, Sherlock thought distastefully. Bastard loved hurting people even more than their sadistic commanding officer did.

Not today. Not if he could help it.

“Actually, she's my mistress.” Sherlock glanced around the room as a stunned silence fell over it, knowing it was because of his blandly spoken words. He raised an eyebrow as he added disdainfully, “What? Is that so unexpected an admission? I'm hardly the only man here to have one.” He looked at Lieutenant Anderson as he spoke; the man openly lived with his mistress in spite of having a wife back in London. The wife was the wealthy daughter of a merchant and the mistress was the unacknowledged offspring of a black slave and her white master; the only thing in common between the two women aside from their sex was their unfathomable attachment to Phillip Anderson.

“Yes, but this is the first time we've seen you pay more than passing attention to a woman, let alone claim one as your mistress!” Anderson blurted out, apparently so shocked by the admission that he'd entirely forgotten his manners.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then made a lightning fast decision and gave up some deeply personal information that he'd had no intention of sharing with anyone but his good friend John Watson. “Until recently, Lieutenant, I had a mistress waiting for me back in London. She has, however, become engaged and has broken off our relationship. Having no wish to comport myself with other women while still romantically involved with another, I chose to abstain even with an ocean between us. Now, however...” He shrugged, leaving the rest of the sentence unfinished. He'd be damned if he revealed that it was his own brother to whom the lady in question had become engaged, or share any other details of his intimate relations with Lady Irene Adler.

It was at that point that Colonel Moran finally opted to weigh in, chastising Anderson for his inappropriate comment. Sherlock couldn't help but notice that he'd waited until he heard Sherlock’s response before doing so; typical of their commanding officer's penchant for gossip, the more salacious the better. Still, this small sacrifice of his personal business was worth it, or would be if the outcome of this situation turned out as favourably as he intended it to.

Sherlock immediately turned his attention to the older man, who literally held this woman's life in his hands. If convicted of spying, she could be hung, but not before being given over to the non-existent mercies of Sergeant Moriarty – Moran's chief torturer. Any secrets the girl held would spill from her lips just as the blood would spill from her body, and there had been enough damage wrought by the British Empire's refusal to cede the colonies to the Colonials to sicken all but the most hardened of soldiers.

Not this girl. Sherlock refused to examine his reasons for wanting to save her life beyond that disgust with warfare that had settled over him recently. Yes, he barely knew her; yes, she was a spy and her actions might have led to danger or death for his own troops, but she'd been caught before doing any such damage, and therefore he saw no reason for her to be hanged. This was assuredly her first foray into his quarters, as he was meticulous about his belongings and would know instantly if anyone had gone through his papers on previous occasions.

Moran studied him, and he offered back the politely interested, slightly bored stare he generally affected when under such scrutiny. “What's her name, if she's your mistress?” his commanding officer finally asked, making it clear that an incorrect answer would earn both him and the girl punishment. And if Moran got it into his head that Sherlock Holmes was a turncoat, his own fate would be just as unpleasant as hers.

Sherlock responded without hesitation. “Molly. Molly Hooper,” he replied. “She lives in Baxton. We met a few weeks ago and formed a...mutual interest in one another.” He allowed his gaze to drift toward her bosom, causing a smirk to cross Moran's face and bringing a flush to Molly's cheeks, although she wisely remained silent, neither denying nor confirming his words. Moran's eyes traveled to the same location, and Sherlock was suddenly hard-pressed not to take his commanding officer to task for his blatant lasciviousness. He despised the older man for many reasons, including his callous abuse of more than one local girl, but also knew that the only way to convince him of the truth of his words was to speak in a language the other man would recognise.

Molly's teeth were worrying at her lower lip, the only sign she gave that she was concerned at all with her current situation. Although her eyes remained lowered, Sherlock caught her peeking at him and easily read her expression as a combination of fear and worry, with a certain element of calculation of which he approved. No doubt she was concerned that he was lying not to protect her, but to make use of her himself in some way. She probably suspected he wished to take her as his mistress in reality, when nothing could be further from the truth.

Well, perhaps that was an overstatement; she was rather pretty, if one were shallow enough to consider such things important, with delicate features and a slender figure that looked as if it would fit quite nicely beneath his taller, heavier form. Her lips and breasts were somewhat less than abundant, true, but he'd never been one to fret over exterior features. Coming into this occupied town, entering an officer's quarters boldly, during daylight hours, acting as a spy for a cause she passionately believed in – all of her actions demonstrated a strength of character well worth admiring. And saving.

“Is that your name?” Moran's question was an angry bark, and the girl flinched a bit before raising her head to meet his eyes, offering up a timid nod in response. “And are you, indeed, Captain Holmes' mistress?”

Her eyes darted to meet Sherlock’s; his own expression remained bland, offering her no hints to follow – and therefore offering Moran nothing concrete upon which to lay his obvious suspicions should he choose to voice or act on them.

“Speak up, woman!” Moran demanded irritably, his green eyes hard as emeralds and his face set in angry, suspicious lines. “Explain why you were in Captain Holmes' quarters and found going through his papers to my satisfaction or else face the consequences.”

Moriarty's tongue darted out between his lips, just a quick dab before retreating back into the cave of his mouth, but Sherlock caught it and forced himself not to react to such a blatant sign of eagerness. Moriarty was one of Moran's closest cronies, regulations against fraternization or no, and as watchful and suspicious as the commanding officer. The two were thick as thieves, a combination of their shared Irish heritage and a mutual love of inflicting pain on others that repelled Sherlock even when his own skin wasn't at stake. He held no love for them in his heart – an organ he’d been accused of lacking on more than one occasion, although he was nowhere near as heartless as Moran and Moriarty had proven themselves to be. Keeping Molly out of their grasp was motive enough for his actions today, traitorous though many might find them to be.

Molly licked her lips before speaking, her voice as soft and genteel as he remembered from their brief exchanges in Baxton. “I...he said he'd written a note for me, that he'd hidden it and tasked me to find it before he returned this evening,” she finally said, and Sherlock wondered if she was making the story up on the spur of the moment or if she’d prepared it in advance in the event she was caught. “I, I thought it would be easiest hidden amongst papers he already had in his desk, so I was looking there when...” her voice faltered, although whether it was an act or an actual attack of nerves even Sherlock was hard-pressed to discern. Her gaze fluttered to Wiggins, who nervously shifted his feet and appeared unable to meet her eyes – the lad felt guilty for putting a woman in harm’s way like this, and was undoubtedly expecting punishment if she truly was his commanding officer’s fancy lady. She returned her gaze to Moran, a flush colouring her cheeks as she appeared to admit to the truth of the story Sherlock had concocted without actually doing so.

Sherlock felt a burst of admiration for her cleverness; oh, well done! It was plausible, especially if he were willing to back her up. He waited for Moran to turn his glower on him before nodding. “I did, indeed, draft a bit of a love note for the lady to find, something for her to read while she awaited my return.” He affected a rueful expression and allowed a note of embarrassment to enter his voice as he continued, “I didn't realize that I'd neglected to mention her upcoming visit to Wiggins before leaving on patrol. My apologies, sir, for the disruption. You have my assurances that it won't happen again.”

Moran studied him unsmilingly for a long minute before finally speaking. “No,” he said, his voice hard and eyes still brimming with suspicion. “It won't, as Miss Hooper will not be leaving the premises for the duration of our stay here.” His lips stretched in an unpleasant approximation of a smile at the stifled gasp of dismay that escaped Molly's lips before she clamped them shut again. Still holding Sherlock's gaze with his own, he added: “You've my leave to fetch her belongings from her home in Baxton, Captain Holmes, but she will remain under guard here until you return. After that, she is to be confined to your quarters unless under escort, do I make myself clear?”

“Does she have permission to write a note to her aunt, explaining her abrupt absence?” Sherlock countered, hoping that it actually was an aunt she resided with and not a grandmother or married sister; he hadn't paid close attention when she prattled on about her living situation, truth be told, having no idea it would hold such importance to him. However, the tension in Molly's posture eased just slightly, and he relaxed a bit as well, recognising that he'd got it right.

Moran nodded, lips once again stretched in a smile that never reached his cold green eyes. “Of course.” He gestured to indicate the writing table next to his desk. “Set her up with quill and parchment, Wiggins,” he ordered. “Then have someone prepare a horse for Captain Holmes. Better to have this matter wrapped up quickly, wouldn't you all agree?”

The answering murmurs from the officers present were all the colonel needed. He dismissed all but Moriarty, Wiggins and Holmes, but allowed John Watson to remain as well, to check on Miss Hooper's small injuries and to see that the ropes hadn't dug too deeply into her flesh. Judging by the black frown on the medical man's face Moriarty had tied them with his usual cruel indifference to a prisoner's comfort. Of course, both he and Moran would claim it was simply due to a desire not to allow her to escape, but Sherlock knew the truth. He bit back an oath as the ropes fell free, revealing the deep gouges and bruises that had formed in the tender flesh of her wrists.

She let out a soft cry of pain as John began tending to her, his own voice low and reassuring as he dabbed ointment on the inflamed wrists. He'd brought his medical bag along with him, prepared as always for the myriad ways men could inflict injuries on one another...and on the female half of the species.

That small cry affected Sherlock far more than he'd anticipated. Without thinking, he started toward her, but Moran's voice at his back stayed his steps. “We both know Dr. Watson is more than competent to tend to her injuries, Captain Holmes, and although I appreciate that you are impatient to see to her comfort,” that last spoken in a dry, ironic tone implying a far more personal level of 'comfort' than the word itself meant, “but shouldn't you be preparing yourself for the journey ahead? Seven miles is a fair distance to go, and there's rain threatening.”

Sherlock snapped off a salute, lips tightly clenched on the angry retort he wished to offer. But this man was, in the eyes of the law, his superior, and that damnable sense of duty wouldn't let him respond with anything beyond a stiff, “Yes, sir. I'll return for the letter within the half hour. She should be recovered enough to write by then, is that correct, Dr. Watson?”

He raised his voice slightly with that question, and John shot him an irritated look before offering a curt nod. Sherlock caught Molly gazing at him again before returning her attention to the man attending to her wounds. Her expression was guarded, as well it should be with Moran watching them both like hawks, and Sherlock's response was the reassuring smile a man might be expected to give his new mistress after such a terrible misunderstanding had occurred.

It might have been better if she'd been able to muster up a few tears, or taken his cue and begged him to help her, to explain things, but he was prepared for further questioning by Moran and had already decided on the explanation that made the most sense under the circumstances: she was a Colonial who would be shunned by her neighbours if it were discovered she was mistress to a Redcoat, so of course she was unwilling to admit to such a shameful thing even when pressed.

At least she hadn't protested Moran's pronouncement of her fate, but any woman would be expected to take up such high-handed treatment when alone with her lover, rather than making a scene in public. No doubt she would have a few choice words for him upon his return from Baxton. She and John Watson both; that much was a foregone conclusion. Whether his friend believed the story Sherlock had concocted or not didn't matter, as he knew Sherlock was no traitor and would eventually come to understand that the story was purely to ensure Molly's safety. If there was one man who was as sick of war as Sherlock, it was John Watson. Not that the man wasn’t willing to face danger or afraid of putting himself in harm's way, but as a physician he truly loathed the nature of the wounds he was forced to treat. And the mistreatment of a woman, spy or not, was exactly the sort of thing to set his blood to boiling.

The interrogation Sherlock intended to subject Miss Hooper to was something he looked forward to with a great deal of anticipation. She'd presented a challenge to the life he'd found himself forced to live in order to live up to the expectations of his family; an unexpected one, but one he found himself relishing in spite of the personal danger into which he'd placed himself by lying to protect her. He bit back a grin at the thought of how his staid, by-the-book brother would take such behaviour. Ah, well. At the moment Mycroft no doubt had his hands full – literally and figuratively – with his new fiancée. Irene was never one to tolerate being placed in the background, which she'd implied had been part of the reason she'd opted to marry Mycroft rather than waiting for Sherlock to return from the war. Not that Sherlock had ever offered marriage to her, but he’d assumed he would be pressed to do so upon his return to England.

That thought didn't bring the stab of betrayal it had only a few hours earlier. Something more to credit Miss Hooper with, he supposed.

With those thoughts running through his mind, Sherlock made his way out of the tavern in order to fetch what few things he would require before his journey began. At least with no foot soldiers he could go at speed, reach his destination within an hour or two, deliver the message to Molly's aunt – if the girl was as clever as she seemed to be, she would find some way to include directions to her home in the missive without giving anything away to Moran, who was sure to read it before allowing it be placed into her supposed-lover's hands – fetch what few belongings the girl was going to need, and return to Marlborough and from there to his bed. He needed less sleep than most others he'd observed, but he was very nearly desperate for it now, after having foregone it for nearly thirty-six hours already.

He briefly considered the idea of discarding his uniform for the journey, then decided against such an action. Baxton was a pacified town, the majority of its population made up of British sympathizers, which made Molly's foray into espionage for the Colonials even more surprising. However, upon reconsideration, what better place for a spy to hide than right in plain sight? Especially since she was very obviously a new recruit, most likely at the behest of a family friend who saw the advantage in her situation. She was a familiar face to many of the British soldiers, had lived her entire life in the same small village, was an orphan with only one family member to concern herself with – and the older woman was very possibly a rebel sympathizer as well. All of which was speculating ahead of the facts, which he abhorred; he must be more tired than he'd originally estimated.

Forty minutes later he was once again astride a horse. Not his own sorrel stallion, Barbarossa, but rather John’s placid gray mare, Toby, on the road to Baxton and bearing Miss Hooper’s missive safely tucked inside his uniform jacket.

He’d read the note, of course, but then, so had Moran. As anticipated, the resourceful Miss Hooper had included directions to her home disguised as a request for her Aunt Martha to allow Captain Holmes to move the market cart into safe storage until her return, which, she claimed, would be within a few weeks.

The reason given for her absence was plausible; she’d supposedly been offered a position in the kitchens of the occupying army. Plausible, yes, but her aunt would likely believe none of it and demand the truth.

A truth, of course, that would fall upon him to deliver, in some form or another. Miss Hooper was showing a great deal of trust in him, although she frankly had no other recourse; had she attempted some sort of coded message for her aunt, Moran would have instantly recognized it. The man was a brute but he was no fool. And even if he were, Moriarty was dangerously intelligent and utterly loyal.

Such thoughts occupied Sherlock’s mind for the remainder of the hour-long journey, the last twenty minutes of which was spent in wet misery as the threatening rain finally manifested. He made his way through the town square and down the muddy track that led to the home Miss Hooper shared with her aunt, Mistress Martha Hudson.

He feared the conversation he and that lady were about to have would not be to either of their liking.


	2. Captain Holmes Is Admonished

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a heartfelt thank you to my lovely Beta and Britpicker, eireann, for going over this. She writes wonderful Star Trek: Enterprise stories featuring Malcolm Reed, which I highly recommend. :) And a shout-out to all my readers, followers, and reviewers for reading, following and reviewing. You guys rock!

“Let me be sure that I understand you correctly, Captain Holmes. Rather than subject my niece to interrogation and torture at the hands of your distasteful commanding officer, you elected instead to subject her to the ignominy of claiming her as your mistress? In what way, sir, is sullying her reputation and damaging her future prospects preferable to allowing her to nobly give her life for a cause in which she believes quite passionately?”

Miss Hooper’s aunt was not an intimidating woman at first glance; slight of build, much like her niece, Martha Hudson stood not much taller. Her hair was steel grey, and if he were the fanciful type he would extrapolate that it was simply an external indication of her character – strong and unyielding. Far from feeling gratitude to him for his rescue, it seemed that she was thoroughly annoyed with him at the moment.

Annoyed, he noted, taking in the tell-tale signs of her emotional state with a flick of an eyelid, but not truly angry. There was a note of resignation in her voice; her hands, folded at her waist over one another, showed every indication of wishing to wring themselves together, but the older woman was just as determined not to allow him to see any sign of her deeper distress. She loved her niece, he concluded; Miss Hooper was no burden to the woman who had raised her after her parents’ untimely deaths, even though Mistress Hudson’s own husband had gone to the gallows long before then.

She’d never remarried, had instead forged a quiet life for herself here in the colonies, and Sherlock at once perceived that her quiet fortitude had impressed itself upon her niece, giving Miss Hooper the strength of character she currently possessed.

Mistress Hudson, he concluded, his mind returning with its usual swift efficiency back to the matter at hand, had no real desire to see her niece martyred in the name of patriotism. Her words were sincerely uttered, but only in the sense that she believed it was a fate her niece might prefer, rather than a dearly-held conviction of her own.

With that in mind, he chose his next words with care, seeing the sharp intelligence in this woman’s eyes as well as her concern for her niece’s well-being and reputation. “I can assure you, Mistress Hudson, that while Miss Hooper is in my care, no harm shall come to her due to any actions of my own – or of my men,” he added, when he saw her brow lowering and a frown forming on her lips. “You have my word on it.”

She gave an unladylike sniff, emphasising both her disdain and her doubts. “Your word as ‘an officer and a gentleman’?” she said, contempt dripping from every word.

He plainly surprised her by shaking his head in a firm ‘no’. “My word as a Holmes, Mistress Hudson. I value the honour of that name far more than I value my rank in the cavalry or my station in life, of that I can assure you.”

She tilted her head and studied him, as if reading the depths of his sincerity in his eyes or the way he held his body, and then gave a stiff nod. “Very well, then. Allow me some time to pack the necessities for my niece’s stay with you. And I will pen her a note as well; two, actually,” she added as she made her way to the door separating the front parlour from the rest of the small house. “One for you to deliver to Molly personally, and one for you to allow Colonel Moran to read. I expect you’re clever enough to find a way to keep him from reading the former.” Then she vanished from view, while a reluctant smile tugged at Sherlock’s lips.

Against his will, he found himself quite liking Mistress Hudson.

oOo

The return journey from Baxton was even more miserable than the outward voyage, as the rain continued to pour down upon Sherlock and Toby. The horse was far more resigned to his damp fate than his rider, who kept up a steady stream of low-voiced curses the entire time, Mistress Hudson’s words still ringing in his ears. By the time they re-entered Marlborough, the sun had nearly set, although it was difficult to tell with the dark clouds crowding the sky, and Sherlock was thoroughly out of temper.

He removed himself from the horse, gave it over to the keeping of the stable-lad who darted out into the wet as soon as Sherlock bellowed for assistance, and plodded his way to his quarters, boots squelching in the mud and Miss Hooper’s belongings slung over his shoulders.

He hoped she appreciated everything he’d endured for her sake, he thought sourly as he reached his temporary home. Wiggins stood outside, looking as miserable as Sherlock felt, but he mustered a proper salute and hastened to unlock and open the door as his commanding officer approached. “She’s been as meek as a lamb,” he reported quietly. “Not a peep out of her since she was escorted here. Dr. Watson brought her some supper and spent some time with her, and he said to tell you to be easy with her, since she’s had such an uncomfortable day and all.”

Sherlock gave him an incredulous stare. “She’s had an uncom…! _Fine_ ,” he bit off at Wiggins’ wide-eyed expression of alarm at this show of temper. “She’s had an uncomfortable day, granted. And you’ll have an uncomfortable night with this rain if you intend to stand guard over the two of us.”

Wiggins shifted from foot to foot uneasily, grasping his musket with both hands and rolling his eyes toward the inn. “Sorry, sir, but Colonel’s orders are that someone has to stay on duty all night. I volunteered before that bas…uh, before Sergeant Moriarty could do so.”

Sherlock’s lips twisted in a sneer; of course the good sergeant would be eager to volunteer to spy on the potential spies. “Very well, Wiggins. You’re relieved of your usual duties tomorrow.” He glanced ruefully down at his muddy boots. “I believe I can manage to clean my own uniform for once.”

He entered the house, closing the door on Wiggins’ thanks, but only after retrieving the key from his corpsman. 

Earlier this disruption of routine had seemed like an intriguing adventure; now, soaking wet, weary, and mud-spattered, all Sherlock felt was irritation. At himself, for his impulsive actions, and at Miss Hooper, for putting him in this ridiculous position in the first place.

Then he glanced through the door into his bedroom, and his face softened at the sight of her fast asleep on his bed. She was fully clothed except for her sturdy brown shoes, which rested next to his slippers beneath it. No, he corrected himself, she’d also removed her cap, which was neatly set on the peg on the back of the door, along with her shawl and his dressing-gown. Rather than turning down the coverlet on his bed, she’d covered herself with the patchwork quilt that normally sat unused on the back of the settee in the parlour, and the thought crossed his mind that she wished to intrude as little as possible into his routine.

With a sigh, he backed out of the room, leaving the single candle she’d brought to light her way resting in its pewter stand. The lamps were lit in the parlour, and by their light he began the arduous process of stripping off his soaking wet clothing and changing into something warm and dry.

A discreet knock at the door brought these proceedings to a halt; he debated ignoring the request for entrance, knowing it wouldn’t be Wiggins – but then, it would be someone to whom Wiggins had granted access. That meant it was either the Colonel, who could not be safely ignored, or one other man. One who could be ignored, but only at the expense of a lecture on the morrow.

With an exhausted groan – Sherlock had already received an earful from Miss Hooper’s Aunt Martha regarding his impulsive attempt to save her niece from certain death, although her objections were entirely due to the lie he’d invented – he dragged himself over to the door, stripping off his wet, woollen socks and dropping them on the floor to land where they would. He unlatched the door; as expected, Dr. John Watson, his one friend in this hellish war besides the ever faithful Wiggins, was glaring at him, rain dripping from his tricorn hat. “Come in, John, before you are washed away with the tides,” Sherlock drawled, stepping aside to allow the other man entry.

He continued removing his soaked uniform, as unconcerned with modesty as he’d always been, knowing John would roll his eyes but say nothing, at least not on that subject.

Sure enough, the next words out of his friend’s mouth as he removed his sodden hat were, “Have you completely lost your mind?”

“Softly, John, the lady has fallen asleep,” Sherlock admonished him, glancing at the half-closed door to the house’s sole bedroom. “How you failed to note that I’ve been keeping my voice low is beyond my comprehension.”

“I’ve given the poor girl laudanum,” John snapped back, his voice slightly lowered nonetheless. “How else did you think she could sleep at such a time?”

Oh dear, he was certainly in for it now. He’d hoped the message Wiggins had delivered was to be the end of the matter from John, but apparently that hope was to be a vain one. With a second sigh, one he didn’t bother to hide, Sherlock padded barefoot over to the large chest under the window, throwing it open and rummaging around in it for a nightshirt. He rarely bothered with such articles, being far more comfortable sleeping in the nude, but he supposed that for propriety’s sake he should do the expected thing for a change, even if his ‘guest’ was resting in a drugged sleep. He should have noted the signs that her sleep was not a natural one, but his current state of mental and physical exhaustion was certainly excuse enough for his not having done so.

Besides, he would need the additional layer if he was going to be spending an uncomfortable night wrapped in a blanket on the floor in front of the hearth.

“Sherlock,” John continued testily, “will you please explain what madness has overcome you? Claiming the young lady as your mistress when we both know she’s no such thing?”

“Would you rather see her hang, John?” Sherlock asked, donning the nightshirt and throwing himself into his favourite chair with a scowl. “For we both know, do we not, that that would surely have been the outcome had I not spoken out for her.”

John moved automatically to seat himself in the chair opposite Sherlock’s, sinking down with a worried expression working furrows into his brow. “It’s possible Colonel Moran would have simply kept her locked up for the duration of the war,” he tried to argue, but it was a feeble attempt and he soon abandoned it. Sherlock didn’t even have to give him ‘the look’, as John grumpily called it; the one that said quite plainly ‘do stop being an idiot’.

Instead, he reached down for the Persian slipper that had travelled with him from London, pulling his pouch of tobacco from its toe. His pipe was set on the mantle above his head, and he reached up and pulled it down, lighting the shag with an ember from the hearth and taking a long, satisfying puff before speaking again. 

“Colonel Moran would have seen her swinging from the gallows if I hadn’t spoken up for her, John, there is no getting around that simple fact. My solution was perhaps imperfect but far better than the alternative.” He grimaced as he remembered the condemnation from Molly’s aunt. “And I have already heard all I wish to hear on how I could better have resolved the situation,” he muttered, his voice taking on a petulant tone. No one had scolded him like that since he was a small boy, and, much as he liked her, part of him resented the woman for making him feel that way once again. As if he’d done something wrong, when in truth he’d exercised the only plausible option available to him in the limited time he’d had to concoct a cover story for Molly’s actions.

“So you’ll carry on pretending she’s your mistress, keeping her a virtual captive here until, what? This idiotic war finally grinds to an end, months or even years from now?” John’s acrimonious words interrupted his thoughts.

Sherlock shrugged and gazed into the hearth. Wiggins had set it blazing and restocked the supply of wood so there was more than enough to see them through the night and the next day. “I’m afraid Miss Hooper is the one who got herself into this mess, John, when she illicitly entered my quarters in search of…” He paused, brow furrowed with thought.

“In search of…?” John prompted, sounding genuinely curious. 

Sherlock shrugged again. “I have no idea,” he confessed. “I shall have to ask the lady herself when she awakens. I have no battle plans worthy of risking her life over, or lists of secret informants that might be useful to the colonists. Nothing that could possibly tempt anyone into searching through my private papers.” He smirked. “I did, however, take the time before leaving to scribble a few love notes in case anyone else chose to examine my documents in my absence.”

“I can just imagine how precise and scholarly such love notes must be,” John scoffed lightly, his mood apparently eased somewhat.

Sherlock’s smirk deepened. “My dear Dr. Watson,” he said, mildly chastising, “I do believe my former mistress would beg to differ as to my scholarly style.”

John raised an eyebrow but said no more on the subject, choosing instead to return to the question of Miss Hooper’s new (and very tenuous) position as an unwilling resident in Sherlock’s billet – and in his bed. “You know you won’t be able to simply hide her away here,” he said, leaning forward and resting his forearm on one knee as he gazed at his friend earnestly. “She’ll have to take on the appearance of being your mistress in public, unless you wish to continue to enjoy Colonel Moran’s suspicions.”

Sherlock sighed and nodded, taking an aggressive series of pulls on his pipe to express his dissatisfaction. “Yes, yes,” he replied impatiently, waving one hand in the air in a dismissive gesture. “I’ll trot her out for display tomorrow, take a turn around the compound with her on my arm. And I’ll be sure to have her mend my uniforms or darn my socks whilst occupying the bench out front. Once the rains end, of course,” he added darkly. “If they ever do.”

“And of course you’ll be sure to be caught kissing her,” John interjected smoothly, watching with a placid smile as Sherlock inhaled too much smoke and went into a brief coughing fit.

“I’ll do no such thing!” he said with a glare, but John’s expression had gone deadly serious, and seeing this Sherlock swallowed in momentary perturbation.

“Sherlock, if Moran suspects for even one moment that you have lied about this relationship, both of you will face severe consequences,” John said. “And you know he isn’t above sending Moriarty to snoop around; that Irish bastard is a rat through and through and he’ll be keeping a close eye on you on the colonel’s behalf. And that,” he added with a raised eyebrow, “means no sleeping on the hearth after tonight. The young lady could be expected to need her rest this evening after so arduous a day, but if you are caught not sharing your bed with her after that…” His voice trailed off and he simply looked at the other man, who understood exactly what his friend was saying.

Sherlock rose to his feet, knocking the bowl of his still-glowing pipe against the fender, allowing the contents to fall into the flames with a sizzle. “Yes, John, I understand,” he growled. “I must in fact do everything I can to alleviate our beloved commander’s suspicions of me and of the young lady. However,” he added, turning to face his friend once again, “I have no doubts that Miss Hooper will only cooperate to a certain extent…and will undoubtedly scheme to free herself from this situation as quickly as possible.”

“And you must keep her from doing so, for your own sake as well as hers,” Watson admonished him, needlessly of course since Sherlock was already well aware of that. He grunted acknowledgement and turned his moody gaze to the flames.

Sherlock heard John rising to his feet, felt his friend’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing sympathetically. “Sherlock, I know you did what you did to save a life, and I admire you for that, but it won’t be easy, this path you’ve laid out for the two of you. I wish you the best, and will do everything in my power to assist you at every turn. And you know Wiggins will as well,” he added.

Sherlock grunted again, still gazing into the flames, until he heard John sigh and felt him remove his hand from his shoulder. He listened as his friend’s footsteps retreated across the room, and there were the small sounds of him once again donning his hat and coat. The sound of the door opening and the rain hissing into the room fell across Sherlock’s ears, and then his friend was gone, leaving him to contemplate his actions – and wonder if he’d mired himself in a hole far too deep to escape from.


	3. What The Morning Brings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a heartfelt thank you to my lovely Beta and Britpicker, LoyaulteMeLie, for going over this, and to nocturnias for some last-minute hand holding. Also a shout-out to all my readers, followers, and reviewers for reading, following and reviewing. You guys rock!

Sherlock awoke the next morning at his usual time, a half hour before dawn, and rose with a grumble from his uncomfortable resting place on the hearth. He was warm enough, even with only a single blanket wrapped around his lanky form, but missed even the questionable comforts of his bed. However, he’d slept in far worse conditions, or so he reminded himself when his grumbling threatened to turn to cursing as his back creaked when he stretched it. Yawning and rubbing at his aching hip – next time he would be sure to sleep on his back rather than his side – he automatically headed for his bedroom, intent on making use of the ceramic chamber pot resting beneath his bed, but paused with his hand on the latch. He’d managed to forget, in his morning mental fog, that both the room and the bed were currently occupied. He hesitated, torn between simply making his way quietly inside and removing the necessity from its current location, and not wanting to disturb his ‘guest’ if she had not yet awoken from her laudanum-induced slumbers.

Biting off a curse, he obeyed his second and nobler impulse, shoving his feet into his everyday boots and stumbling outside to the privy to relieve himself. He was grateful that the storms had finally abated, and that the path was therefore somewhat less muddy than it might otherwise have been. Well, ‘somewhat less’ was a bit of a stretch; at least it wasn’t pouring rain on him as he trudged through the muck, he thought sourly.

After slogging his way back inside, careful to scrape as much of the mud off his boots as he could, he bit back another curse as he found himself confronted by the lady herself, her dress somewhat crumpled, her stays clearly loosened, with the afghan wrapped snugly around her shoulders. “My apologies if I awoke you,” he said with a slight bow, recognising the ridiculousness of doing so whilst clad only in a long, white nightshirt. 

Miss Hooper shook her head and averted her eyes from his improperly clad form. “No apologies necessary for that, Captain Holmes,” she replied. “I am an early riser by nature, and slept quite soundly thanks to Doctor Watson’s insistence that I choke down his opiates.”

Sherlock, who had poured himself a glass of water and had been about to take a sip, nearly choked on it trying not to laugh at the tartness of her voice as she finished speaking. “I take it you did not wish to be aided to slumber?” he asked, eyes crinkling with amusement.

Miss Hooper, however, did not appear amused. She stood near the hearth, a very unladylike scowl marring her otherwise pleasant features as she toyed with the ends of her neatly braided hair. “I wished only to make my way to my home, Captain Holmes,” she replied bluntly. “To relieve you of the burden of continuing to pretend to a relationship that does not – and never will – exist.” Her voice sharpened warningly, and there was challenge in her eyes as she met his gaze.

“I can assure you, Miss Hooper, that I did not engage in this ridiculous deception merely to take the opportunity to avail myself of your charms,” Sherlock said coldly, his brief amusement vanishing. “Your virtue is in no danger from me.”

He thought he saw a flash of remorse in her eyes, although it was difficult to tell when she continued to avert her gaze. He supposed he could excuse himself in order to at least put on some trousers, but some contrary part of his nature stubbornly refused to give in to the gentlemanly impulse. They were in this predicament due to her actions; she could bloody well learn to live with the consequences.

“I do not wish to appear ungrateful,” she began, and Sherlock couldn’t stop the bark of sardonic laughter that escaped his throat. “You find me humorous?” she asked, colouring slightly although her voice remained steady as she darted a look at his face. 

“I find the entire situation humorous,” Sherlock replied, pulling out one of the four straight-backed chairs from the table and seating himself, manners be damned. It was clear his temporary house-mate was in a contentious mood, and he was becoming irritated as he considered the necessary actions they would both have to agree to in order to remain safe. “Starting with the fact that you do, indeed, appear ungrateful, not to put too fine a point on it. I’ve yet to hear you say ‘thank you’,” he added pointedly. “I would think simple courtesy…”

“Thank you for your assistance, Captain Holmes,” she interrupted him. “I appreciate your willingness to pretend to a relationship that would explain my presence in your quarters; however, I would also appreciate your assistance in returning me to my…”

“Your aunt sends her regards,” Sherlock said, smugly interrupting her as he noted her increased agitation. He got back to his feet, rummaging in his coat pocket and procuring the missive her aunt had written for her. “And also this letter.” He offered it to her, but when she eagerly reached for it, he lifted it out of her reach and cocked a warning eyebrow at her. “Once you have read this, it must go directly into the fire,” he cautioned her. “There is another letter you may read as well, one that I am of course duty-bound to share with Colonel Moran. Who,” he added as he allowed Miss Hooper to take the letter, “will be expecting me at breakfast in another hour.”

Miss Hooper was ignoring him, a rather remarkable sensation as he was unused to unattached young ladies doing anything other than fluttering over him. However, considering the circumstances, he could hardly fault her. Her expression gradually darkened into a frown that threatened to remain indefinitely as she silently read over her aunt’s words. 

“Is something wrong?” Sherlock ventured to ask when she carefully refolded the paper and gazed down at it.

She started and looked at him as if she’d forgotten his presence. “My aunt urges me not to do anything she would consider ‘foolish’,” she said slowly. “By which I presume she means for me to remain here and not bash you over the head with a pewter mug and make my escape.”

“Wise words on your aunt’s part,” Sherlock replied, discreetly moving the pewter mug at his elbow out of Miss Hooper’s reach. “Should I be discovered unconscious in my quarters after you’d fled – presumably stealing a horse if you can ride? – I can assure you the first thing Colonel Moran would do after clapping me in irons is hunt you down and have you put to death.”

All the bravado seemed to leave her at that bald statement, and she sank down onto the nearest chair, her expression blank. “Surely you could find some excuse to give that would allow me to return home? You’ve assisted me thus far, Captain Holmes…”

“Sherlock,” he interrupted her firmly. “You must call me Sherlock when in private.”

She gave him a disdainful look, finally working up the nerve – or possibly simply the exasperation – to stare pointedly at his inappropriately-clad body from head to toe. “We hardly know one another well enough for such intimacies, _Captain_ Holmes,” she said, giving his title slight but obvious emphasis. “And if we are ‘in private’, there should be no need for us to carry out such a charade.”

“If we are to affect an intimate relationship, Miss Hooper – Molly,” he corrected himself deliberately, “then we must be convincing, don’t you agree?” As he spoke he held out his hand; immediately understanding his intent, she hesitated only a moment before handing him the letter from her aunt, watching unhappily as he tossed it into the flames.

The watched it burn before she spoke again. “I suppose I must agree…Sherlock.”

He sternly stamped down on the flutter of enjoyment he felt at hearing her pronounce his Christian name; the game was not seduction but protection. For both of them, since he’d recklessly put his own neck on the block in the effort to save hers. To better understand how he could extend and perhaps reinforce that protection, he needed more information from his unwilling guest.

“What did you hope to find in my quarters, Miss Hooper? Surely you didn’t think a mere Captain’s correspondence could hold any military secrets worth risking your life over!”

“Oh,” Molly said with a small shrug. “It was a mistake.”

“Yes, certainly,” Sherlock agreed. “But the question remains: why did you make such a mistake? What did you hope to find in my papers…” He fell silent as she shifted in her seat, fingers worrying at the skirts of her dress. His brow furrowed and then smoothed as he realised what must have happened. “Ah, I see. Were you led to believe, perhaps, that this humble abode was where the good Colonel Moran was billeted?”

She nodded, not bothering to attempt any dissembling. After all, she’d been well and truly caught, and it was only by Sherlock’s good graces that she retained any semblance of freedom at all. “It seemed like too good an opportunity to let pass,” she admitted ruefully. “I was supposed to pass on the information to…certain other parties…but when I came to deliver the vegetables to your cookhouse, and saw what I thought was the Colonel’s quarters unguarded, I took my chance.”

“Reckless,” Sherlock noted, “but no different to how I would have approached the matter, I suppose.”

Molly looked surprised, as if she hadn’t been expecting even so watered-down a compliment. He was surprised as well; he’d started this conversation intending to keep her on the back foot, to impress upon her the seriousness of her situation, not to admire her willingness to risk herself for a cause in which she clearly believed most passionately. He caught himself wondering if she were equally impassioned under other, more intimate circumstances, and scowled at the lack of discipline within his own mind.

Then her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and Captain William Sherlock Scott Holmes lost his train of thought completely. Unaware of his own actions, he found himself on his feet and moving to stand directly in front of Molly. She gazed up at him in mute inquiry, then gasped as he grasped her wrist in one hand, pulled her to her feet and bent his head to press his lips to hers.

oOo

It took Molly a moment to understand what was happening. Not because she was innocent of such goings-on between men and women – which she was only in the sense that no one had ever kissed her before – but because her mind went entirely blank as the handsome Brit’s lips met hers. For a shockingly long moment she even forgot to resist as the sensations flooded through her, setting off a chain reaction that was as exciting as it was disgraceful.

When sense finally came roaring back into her mind, she pulled away and stared at him, outrage warring with worry on her face as she demanded, “ _What_ do you think you’re doing?” She wasn’t worried about his intentions so much as her own instinctive – and highly inappropriate – reactions. She ought to be slapping him right now, instead of wanting him to kiss her again! And even if she did want him to do so, she would certainly never speak such a desire out loud!

He had the gall to roll his eyes, as if _she_ , rather than he, were in the wrong. His tone in reply was even more exasperating, being so patronising it made her want to slap him just for that – as well, of course, as for his reprehensible conduct. “In order for this to work, Molly, we must be seen acting as if you are, indeed, my mistress when in public view. And in order for that masquerade to be properly enacted, I will from time to time be required to kiss you!”

Molly glared at him. This arrogant, pompous...oh, she had no proper words for what he was but would be sure to ask her good friend Captain Greg Lestrade for them once she’d freed herself from this ridiculous French farce of a situation. “I am perfectly capable of kissing you, Captain Holmes, when the circumstances call for it. Which they currently do _not_!” She ignored the fluttering of her stomach, the pounding of her heart and the heat in her cheeks that gave lie to her denials. It didn’t help that he was clad only in a white nightshirt that bared his shapely calves to her view; why hadn’t she demanded that he dress himself when she first awoke and met him in the parlour?

He raised an insolent eyebrow at her as he continued to pin her with his gaze. “Really? Can you kiss me like a woman greeting her lover after an absence, when I return from patrol?” His voice seemed to go even lower, raising goosebumps on her arms and prickling the short hairs on the back of her neck. “Or kiss me like a woman saying goodbye to a man she may never see again, when I leave in the first place?” He was stroking the back of her hand, which he’d refused to release, with one finger. Molly found herself fighting the urge to shiver as she gaped up at him.

His entire attitude shifted to icy disdain as quickly as it had turned to smouldering sexuality, and his voice regained its regular timbre as he continued: “Because that is exactly what is going to be expected of you. Moran is suspicious of us both; only the fact that he has never had reason to question my loyalties to the Crown has stopped him from accusing me of covering for you. Which,” he added pointedly, “I am. Now. I give you my word that my motives are solely for your benefit when I ask you, once again, to allow me to kiss you. We must appear to be comfortable with one another, or at least more comfortable than we currently are.”

Molly considered his ‘request’ for a long moment, unable to tear her gaze away from his remarkable eyes. Right now they were cold and impatient, not at all the eyes of a man who wished to seduce a woman into his arms – or his bed. He’d acted with honour so far, protecting her when he knew very well that she was an enemy spy. That, she decided, was the only reason she found herself agreeing to continue this mad charade. Not because he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, or the most intelligent – although he most certainly was both those things. 

No, it was a combination of simple gratitude and common sense that caused her to nod her agreement; that _had_ to be all it was. Her heart was pounding, of course it was; whose heart wouldn’t pound in such a fraught situation? Her life was still in danger; one word from this man and it would all be over. He was certainly clever enough to spin a believable yarn as to why he had protected her in the first place – his desire to make her his mistress in reality was undoubtedly all it would take for that lecherous pig Moran to believe him.

Captain Holmes – Sherlock, she must remember to call him by his Christian name as he’d requested when in private – gazed down at her with a faint smirk curling his lips as he pulled her closer, slowly but with confidence, releasing his grip on her wrist and moving that hand to her waist. The other moved up to brush against her shoulder, coming to rest on the nape of her neck so he could tilt her head up as he lowered his own to meet hers. His lips were soft, gentle, and her eyes fluttered shut as they moved against hers, maintaining a light pressure that gradually increased, although she found herself so lost in the moment that she only noticed when she felt his tongue lightly pressing against her lips, teasing them open and eliciting a gasp of surprise he quickly took advantage of. The pressing became a thrust, and suddenly his tongue was in her mouth, sliding along hers in a vulgar, erotic movement like none she’d ever experienced.

Instead of pushing him away in righteous indignation as her upbringing told her was the correct response to such an outrage, she tentatively allowed her tongue to move against his, feeling a surge of triumph at his startled intake of breath at the boldness of her response. Molly Hooper had never backed down from a challenge in her entire two-and-twenty years, and she didn’t intend to start now. At least, that was all she told herself it was; he’d pushed, and she refused to back down. It had nothing to do with the galloping of her heart or the roaring of her blood through her veins.

Sherlock pulled back and stared at her for a long moment, eyes suddenly wilder than they had been and droplets of sweat glistening on his forehead. Molly stared up at him, fearing that her own eyes held the same hunger. He gave her no time to protest as he lunged forward and brought his mouth slashing down against hers with what felt like very real passion, taking her lower lip between his teeth and nipping at it until her mouth opened beneath his again.

Dimly Molly realized that she was holding his upper arms in her hands in a desperate attempt to remain on her feet as a wave of dizziness overcame her, weakening her knees and making her ankles feel distinctly wobbly. Whether Sherlock noted her unsteadiness or whether he was simply as overcome with desire as she was, his grasp on her tightened; the arm around her waist hauled her closer, pressing her against the firm length of his semi-clad body, and Molly felt a warm bulge against her hip through the thin layer of his nightshirt. Although she had no direct experience with such portions of the male anatomy, she certainly knew what it portended!

Once again, instead of feeling shame or alarm, all she felt was a rising flush of heat from her feminine core that travelled up her torso to paint her cheeks a heated red. The hand on her waist slid downward to fondle her bottom, while the other was tangled desperately in her hair. She realized with a faint sense of surprise that one of her own hands had moved up to clutch with equal desperation at his dark curls while the other had somehow wandered to his shoulder.

He was the first to break the fervent embrace, pulling his lips from hers and holding her at arm’s length, chest heaving and his breathing as ragged as her own. His eyes had darkened with lust, and she was certain the dark brown of her own was equally drenched in blackness. “You play a dangerous game, Miss Hooper,” he said in a hoarse growl. “Do not think to tempt me into more indiscretions than I’ve already committed on your behalf.”

She glared at him again, inexplicably wounded by his words; of course he would think her forward behaviour was meant as a seduction, another attempt to secure her freedom. She tossed her head as she fought to regain her severely rattled composure; the kisses had affected her far more than they should have. “And why _did_ you help me, Captain Holmes?” she finally managed to ask, displeased by how breathless her voice sounded. “What do you want from me, if not this?” She gestured to indicate her body, painfully aware of its shortcomings and ashamed of the small part of her that thrilled to the undeniable fact that he did, indeed, seem to find it enticing enough to tempt him into saving her from the gallows.

When he finally answered, however, it was nothing she’d expected to hear. “Because I see no point in further lives being needlessly lost to this ridiculous war.”

Molly stared at him as he moved away from her, deliberately turning his back as he went to the hearth in order to add another log to the fire, recognising that he was testing her. Would she attempt to overpower him, laughable though such a goal would seem to be considering the differences in their sizes, or would she simply take the opportunity to flee through the unlocked door in spite of his earlier assertions as to the foolishness of such an act?

She did neither, not being a fool. His corpsman, Wiggins, was waiting outside, or another guard had been posted, and she’d seen the looks Colonel Moran had levelled at both her and the captain; as Sherlock had said, any such attempt would be immediately noted and halted, ending with the two of them side by side in the gaol, awaiting first interrogation and then hanging.

She shivered a bit at the thought; she wasn’t nearly as insouciant about dying as she tried to appear, and no matter what his motives, Captain Holmes had saved her life by his intervention. When he straightened and turned from the fire, he appeared unsurprised to see her standing exactly where he’d left her.

They traded stares before Molly spoke again. “I still don’t think I understand your meaning, Captain Holmes,” she finally said. 

“Sherlock,” he corrected her. “My name, as I have already informed you, is Sherlock. Along with kissing and other embraces, it would do us well to remember to call one another by our Christian names whenever possible. I thought we had come to an agreement on this matter…Molly.”

Hearing him say her name in that baritone rumble threatened to weaken her knees yet again; she stiffened them and merely nodded to indicate her agreement. “And what do you not understand, Molly?” he asked while she continued to stare stupidly at him, all previous thoughts flown from her head.

“Me,” she finally squeaked out, then readjusted the afghan around her shoulders in order to give herself a moment to compose herself. (Goodness, she was having to do that an awful lot today, and she’d yet to break her fast!) “I mean, why save me? You barely know me, you know I wasn’t here for anything…harmless,” she said after seeking the appropriate term. “If you didn’t do it to make me your mistress in truth, then why do it at all?”

He shrugged and toyed with a pair of exquisite wine glasses placed on the mantel. Expensive crystal, she noted with part of her mind. Since they bore what looked to be a family crest etched into the glass, she knew they hadn’t been looted or purchased on this side of the Atlantic Ocean, which meant they’d survived a sea crossing and however many moves he’d made since arriving here...how long ago?

As she opened her mouth to ask, he interrupted her. “Three years. I have been on this continent for three bloody years, Molly, and I am more than ready to return home, I can assure you.”

“How did you know…?”

He waved one hand dismissively. “I saw you examining the wine glasses, noting their pristine condition. Seeing my family crest you knew they had travelled here with me and allowed yourself to be distracted by wondering how long I had been here. Three years, and God willing, I will return home in no more than two additional years. Sooner, if the generals get their heads out of their bloody arses and see what’s right in front of their eyes.”

“And what would that be?” Molly asked cautiously.

He shrugged and turned to fully face her. “Isn’t it obvious? The war is already over, it’s just that neither side can see it yet.”

She couldn’t help it; she bristled at the dismissive tone of his voice. “Don’t count the Americans out yet, Captain Holmes!”

“Call me Sherlock,” he corrected her with a scowl. “And you mistake my meaning. It is not the rebels who will be conceding defeat within the next two years, but the British Army.”

She stared at him, mouth opened for protests she could no longer make. “On, on what do you base that opinion?” she finally managed to ask.

He shrugged. “Oh, it isn’t an opinion, but fact. And I base it upon my knowledge of British and Colonial – sorry, American – tactics and strategies, the French participating more actively on the American side, the unwillingness of the British officers in charge of this fiasco to acknowledge that their strategies are inherently flawed...I could go on and on, but I shan’t bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that I am convinced that the colonies will very soon be recognised as an independent nation.”

“If British defeat is as inevitable as you make it out to be, then why prolong your own part in it?” she asked, genuinely interested in knowing how this fascinating man’s mind worked. When not in danger of being hanged as a spy, she believed she could spend hours conversing with him. Or doing other things involving the two of them investigating one another’s bodies without the nuisance of clothing.... She hurriedly whisked her mind away from _that_ particular avenue of thought. “Why not simply resign your commission and return to England if you feel this is a lost cause?” she asked, attempting to return her wayward thoughts to more respectable topics. Then, greatly daring, she added: “Or why not throw your lot in with the winning side?”

The look he shot her was suddenly pure venom, and his voice fairly dripped disdain as he snapped out his response. “Because I am neither a coward nor a traitor, Miss Hooper, a fact which you would do well to remember in future conversations.”

His good humour had entirely vanished, it would seem. Molly watched with wary eyes as he stalked out of the room, pausing in the doorway for one parting shot. “Pray excuse me, as I must dress and prepare myself to break my fast with Colonel Moran. I shall have Wiggins bring you something to eat as soon as I can.” The bedroom door slammed shut, and she was left standing in the parlour, wondering what her next course of action should be.

oOo

Sherlock resisted the urge to slam his fist into the wall, although it was a difficult struggle. He hadn’t meant for any of that to happen – not the first kiss, nor the second, certainly not his body’s betraying reaction to the blasted woman! Not even his predictions for the eventual outcome of the war were words he’d meant to share with anyone; he’d never even discussed those beliefs with John Watson, for God’s sake! Yet here he was, blathering his innermost thoughts to her as if they’d known one another for decades, and were good friends…or lovers.

He threw off his nightshirt, uncaring that it landed half on the floor and half on the neatly made bed. There was no sign that Molly had occupied it so recently, not even an indentation in the pillow. Conscientious of her, he thought with an attempt at a sneer. His traitorous body, however, continued to make its lascivious interest in her known, as his inopportune erection continued to plague him in spite of his distemper. And his equally traitorous mind kept whispering how easy it would prove to convince her to share that bed with him, in spite of her protestations to the contrary. The right words, softly spoken; his sincere sympathy for her cause even as he fought on the opposite side; soft looks and sweet caresses, and she would melt into his embrace.

And hate him all the more for it once he’d taken her.

That thought was the dose of cold reality his body needed to return to its normal, unaroused state, and to bring sober clarity to his mind. No matter how enjoyable it had been to hold Molly Hooper in his arms, to kiss those sweet lips, to feel her responding to his attentions, it was a dangerous, potentially deadly game they were playing. Neither of them could be allowed to forget that, ever. And the longer it progressed, the more dangerous it would become.

He paused in the midst of pulling on his trousers; how long, exactly would the game have to continue in order to convince Moran of Molly’s supposed innocence? Would the blasted man expect them to remain together for as long as they remained quartered here, or would Sherlock be able at some point in the near future to return her to her aunt’s house, under the guise of having grown weary of her?

In spite of his deductive abilities, this was one question that could not be answered without further investigation. Starting with breakfast. Finishing his morning ablutions as quickly as he could without the usual aid of Wiggins – who no doubt hesitated to venture into the house with Miss Hooper inside – he donned his clothing and strode back into the main room of the house to reclaim his boots, jacket and hat before facing his second dragon of the day.


	4. Unto the Breach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Sherlock threw off his nightshirt, uncaring that it landed half on the floor and half on the neatly made bed. There was no sign that Molly had occupied it so recently, not even an indentation in the pillow. Conscientious of her, he thought with an attempt at a sneer. His traitorous body, however, continued to make its lascivious interest in her known, as his inopportune erection continued to plague him in spite of his distemper. And his equally traitorous mind kept whispering how easy it would prove to convince her to share that bed with him, in spite of her protestations to the contrary. The right words, softly spoken; his sincere sympathy for her cause even as he fought on the opposite side; soft looks and sweet caresses, and she would melt into his embrace._
> 
> And hate him all the more for it once he’d taken her.
> 
> _That thought was the dose of cold reality his body needed to return to its normal, unaroused state, and to bring sober clarity to his mind. No matter how enjoyable it had been to hold Molly Hooper in his arms, to kiss those sweet lips, to feel her responding to his attentions, it was a dangerous, potentially deadly game they were playing. Neither of them could be allowed to forget that, ever. And the longer it progressed, the more dangerous it would become._
> 
> _He paused in the midst of pulling on his trousers; how long, exactly would the game have to continue in order to convince Moran of Molly’s supposed innocence? Would the blasted man expect them to remain together for as long as they remained quartered here, or would Sherlock be able at some point in the near future to return her to her aunt’s house, under the guise of having grown weary of her?_
> 
> _In spite of his deductive abilities, this was one question that could not be answered without further investigation. Starting with breakfast. Finishing his morning ablutions as quickly as he could without the usual aid of Wiggins – who no doubt hesitated to venture into the house with Miss Hooper inside – he donned his clothing and strode back into the main room of the house to reclaim his boots, jacket and hat before facing his second dragon of the day._

While he had been readying himself, Miss Hooper had apparently been doing the same. Although she wore the same clothing, she’d done up her corset – a difficult feat on her own but clearly not impossible – and tidied her hair from its night braid into a bun at the top of her head. Her cap still hung neatly on a peg in his bedroom, but she’d retrieved fresh stockings (and very likely underclothes) from the small trunk he’d brought with him from her home in Baxton. Her shoes, which had been sitting neatly by the front door, were back on her feet, buckles shining, and she’d clearly made use of the basin of water sat on the side table near the door to the kitchen. She was, in fact, the very picture of a young lady about to….

“No,” he said flatly as realization dawned. “Absolutely not.”

She raised her chin and folded her hands at her waist, her attitude forcibly reminding him of both her aunt and his own mother at her most intransigent. “And why not? Surely if our situation was truly what we wish others to believe it to be, you would be expected to escort me to breakfast? Not simply abandon me here to my own devices?”

He glowered, but found himself unable to dredge up an argument capable of refuting her point, especially after Moran had made such a point of sending Sherlock off to fetch her belongings – or rather, such belongings as he could reasonably be expected to carry on horseback. His commanding officer wished to be certain of her continued presence, and if Sherlock appeared at the breakfast table without her on his arm, he would likely be commanded to turn right around and fetch her.

Why, why, WHY hadn’t he taken that into consideration when he was preparing himself this morning?

Oh, he knew why. The reason was standing in front of him, looking up at him with those enormous brown eyes of hers. Her lips still appeared swollen from his kisses – he hadn’t been gentle with her, as he’d originally intended to be. Instead he’d been…demanding. Passionate. Desperate.

In short, not a gentleman at all. And she had responded like no lady was supposed to, in spite of his certainty that she’d never been kissed before this morning. If he’d lifted her skirts and slipped his fingers ‘neath her drawers, would he have found her dewy with want, a match for the erection he’d pressed against her body as if she were in truth his mistress?

“Very well,” he bit out, thrusting his arm out impatiently, desperate to distract his mind from such inappropriate thoughts. “Let us be off, then, Miss Hooper. And _do_ be sure to express your gratitude to the good Colonel for allowing you this opportunity to spend more time with me.”

“I can assure you, Captain Holmes, I can simper with the best of them,” came her pert reply. Sherlock gave a reluctant smile; in spite of the difficulties presented by their current circumstances, he appreciated Miss Hooper’s quick-wittedness. It would stand her in good stead as they negotiated the rocky shoals ahead of them.

When she tucked her hand daintily into the crook of his arm, an unexpected warmth stole over him. Memories of the kisses they’d shared once again invaded his mind – the sensation of her body pressed so intimately against his, her lips parting when he deepened the kiss…He cleared his throat and groped blindly for his hat, clapping it onto his head in spite of the fact that they hadn’t left the house yet. She gave him a puzzled look, her eyes widening as they met his. Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face; a faint blush coloured her cheeks and her mouth dropped open the slightest bit.

Mesmerized by the sight of those pink lips parting, Sherlock dipped his head down, his free hand reaching for her upper arm, tugging her closer, closer, as his mouth hovered over hers…

The sound of knocking at the front door broke the spell; the two of them jumped apart as if burnt. Molly slipped her hand free of his arm and fussed a bit with her shawl, eyes modestly lowered, while he forced himself to move away from her and toward the door. It was Wiggins, looking somewhat the worse for wear but eyes alight with curiosity as he not-so-unobtrusively craned his head to get a look as Miss Hooper. 

Sherlock cuffed him lightly on the shoulder. “Is there something you needed, Corpsman?” he snapped.

“Yessir!” Wiggins snapped off a hasty salute. “Colonel Moran’s compliments, and he hopes you and the lady will break fast with him this morning. In his private parlour.”

Sherlock groaned. “Oh for G…uh, for heaven’s sake, why can’t he just follow his usual procedure and spare me this additional torture?”

Wiggins simply shrugged. “Ours not to question why,” he said philosophically.

“You ought to put that down in a poem,” Sherlock muttered. The corpsman gave him an impudent grin and Sherlock dismissed him, gesturing for Molly to precede him.

oOo

Molly allowed none of her considerable trepidation to show as she and Captain Holmes were escorted up the stairs of the inn to join the odious Colonel Moran in his private parlour. She held her head high as they passed by the officers gathered in the main room to break their fast, nodding pleasantly as many of them vacated their seats and stood whilst she and the captain were in the room. Their mothers had clearly raised them well, if not properly; as the publicly-declared mistress of the man by her side, she was due no respect by any of them, no matter what her other station in life. But seeing that Doctor Watson had been the first to rise to his feet – and offer her a respectful bow of his head as she passed him – she supposed they felt they could offer no less courtesy. Well, some of them. The rest simply kept their head resolutely down, as if whatever food was on their plates occupied their fullest attention.

Once they reached the landing of the first floor, however, her façade faltered. Standing at attention by a closed door was Sergeant Moriarty, the young man who’d so eagerly – and cruelly – bound her wrists together; who’d shown even more eagerness at the prospect of questioning her. She managed to hold back a shudder, and felt the muscles in Captain Holmes’ arm tighten briefly, as if he, too, shared her wariness the other man. Which, she remembered, he most certainly did. However, like herself, her companion was able to refrain from any further reactions to the sergeant’s presence. “Colonel Moran is expecting us,” was all the captain said as they came to a stop in front of the Irishman, his tone tinged with the cool, deliberate hauteur of the aristocrat.

“Aye, sir, you and the…” the pause was obvious and calculated, as was the look Moriarty gave her before saying with exaggerated doubtfulness, “…lady are to go right in. The Colonel will join you shortly.” Then he opened the door and ushered them inside with a broad (and very clearly mocking) sweep of the arm. Captain Holmes swept past him without another word, drawing her along with him. She was unable to control a small shudder as she passed the man, and heard him give a small chuckle before the door closed behind them.

As soon as they were alone she released her grip on Captain Holmes’ arm, drawing her shawl tightly about her and turning away from him. She needed a moment to compose herself; the brief encounter with Sergeant Moriarty had awoken such a fierce revulsion in her breast that she feared for her ability to present his superior with a calm demeanour.

“Moran will attempt to flatter you.”

Startled by the captain’s abrupt – but quietly spoken – words, Molly turned to face him. “Why do you say that?” She instinctively kept her own voice to a murmur, casting her eyes briefly to the door to convey to her companion that she knew their conversation might otherwise be overheard by unfriendly ears.

“Because that’s the sort of odious toad he is,” he replied, his voice and eyes cold, his lips barely moving as he moved closer to the small room’s single window. Molly followed him, still clutching her shawl around her in a protective gesture. “He’ll see you as fair game, a fallen woman willing to lift her skirts for any man, not just the one under whose protection she currently finds herself.” His lip curled in disdain as he added, “And of course he’ll be pleased to seduce you away from such a troublesome young officer as myself; he dare not take direct action against me that might be reported to my family, but stealing my mistress for himself? Much more to his taste – and his ultimately cowardly nature.”

The thought of the other man attempting any such thing made Molly’s skin crawl. “Well,” she said, lifting her head and meeting Captain Holmes’ gaze steadily, “we shall have to make it quite clear that the two of us are far too enamoured of one another to allow any such thing to come to pass.”

His expression went from startled to amused to appreciative so rapidly that she might have missed the series of transitions, had she not been studying him so closely. Speaking of closely…he moved forward and placed a hand on her waist, drawing her closer and lowering his head so that his lips brushed her ear as he murmured, “Yes, we shall have to be most diligent in our pretence, Miss Hooper. Most diligent, indeed.” Then his lips moved from her ear to her mouth, and suddenly Molly found herself being kissed breathless.

The sound of someone loudly clearing their throat behind them caused her to gasp and pull away, but only her head; Captain Holmes kept his hands firmly on her waist ( _both_ hands? When had that happened?) as he drawled out a greeting. “Good morning, Colonel. My apologies for the unseemly display, but as you no doubt surmised, I have found it most pleasant to have Miss Hooper in such close proximity, rather than having to travel to spend…time…with her.”

Molly’s cheeks burned, not only because of the recently-ended kiss or the way they’d been interrupted in so intimate a moment, but also because of the obvious innuendo in Captain Holmes’ words. She pulled her hands away from his chest (when had they landed there?) and nervously smoothed down her skirts as he finally released her. He escorted her to the small table that had been set up for the three of them, and which she had been far too preoccupied to notice before now, and politely helped her take her seat. He waited for Colonel Moran to seat himself before taking his own, placing his hat on the floor by his chair as he did so.

The next hour passed with nerve-racking slowness. Tea was offered and accepted (although to Molly’s colonial sensibilities, it was a bitter brew indeed, no matter how much sugar and cream she added); the food was served (thankfully not by Sergeant Moriarty); and small talk was made. As Captain Holmes had predicted, Colonel Moran oozed false sympathy and flattery, complimenting Molly on her gown, her complexion, and even her manners. As if such could possibly win her to his side, considering that only yesterday he’d been prepared to have her questioned and put to the gallows!

Surely he’d not been completely lulled into complacency by her and Captain Holmes’ display of affection (false display, she must never let herself forget that!) – but just as surely, he was hoping that she might be fooled into believing his suspicions to be completely allayed and thus make a false step. Well, he could wait until the very gates of Hell opened beneath his feet before she would allow any such mistake on her own part! Nor, she was confident, would Captain Holmes be so unwary. Secure in that belief, she managed to complete the meal without giving way to a fit of nerves or betraying any lack of knowledge that might betray the newness of her relationship with the handsome, infuriating man to whom she was now bound.

She watched her supposed lover from under her lashes as he and Colonel Moran discussed their schedules for the day, alert for anything that might prove useful to her allies should she find a way out of this predicament in time for them to make use of such information. Alas, the conversation remained quite general, thus freeing her to focus instead on how handsome a profile the captain presented, how captivating his lips were, how intense his blue (green? grey?) eyes were when he spoke. None of which, she had to remind herself sharply, would in any way allow her to find a means to escape and make her way…well, certainly not home, but to friends who might hide her from possible retribution.

As she silently scolded herself for acting like a smitten school-girl, the captain laughed at something Moran said, and she found herself captivated all over again; his laugh was full-throated and relaxed, and his face when he smiled…devastating. Absolutely devastating. He heart gave a little stutter in her chest as he turned that smile on her, and she was helpless to do anything but smile back at him.

oOo

Kissing Molly had been a mistake. Oh, not from a strategic standpoint; it had, in fact, had the desired effect on Colonel Moran, at least temporarily distracting him from his suspicions of the two of them and focusing his efforts this morning more on falsely wooing Molly than on attempting to catch them out in a lie of any kind. No, the mistake had been due to his wilfully forgetting how much Molly’s kisses affected himself. Fortunately (loath though he was to admit any cause of gratitude to the man) Moran’s arrival had occurred before any physical manifestations of his blasted attraction to the diminutive but extraordinarily enticing woman had appeared. He’d had _more_ than enough of that for one day, thank you very much!

She’d been as flustered as he at the end of the kiss, he’d been pleased to note, and not because of any possible acting skills she might possess; no, he flattered himself that it was strictly because he affected her as strongly as she affected him. Her prettily pink cheeks had certainly helped Moran to focus on her as a woman rather than as a potential spy, and he’d acted the perfect host during their shared meal – at least maintaining a veneer of polite behaviour towards a female guest. 

His manners had lasted only as long as Molly was in the room; as soon as Sherlock had risen to escort her back to his – their – billet, the colonel had found some excuse to keep him behind, ordering Sergeant Moriarty to escort her in his stead. She’d tensed, but visibly forced herself to relax, smiling and giving his senior officer a polite curtsey when he bowed over her hand and begged her pardon for the ‘unavoidable’ separation. “But the sergeant will see you safely to your new home,” he’d said, oozing false sincerity from every pore. “And see to any of your needs whilst Captain Holmes and I confer.”

Sherlock had to pretend that yes, this was perfectly fine as he, too, bowed over her hand and accepted a small curtsey by way of farewell. His eyes flashed her a warning, to which she gave a slight nod of understanding; good, very good, she knew quite well how dangerous Moriarty could be…and how unlikely he was to be influenced by the delicateness of her femininity, as Moran was willing to allow himself to be. Still, the sergeant had a hearty interest in his own survival; that was probably Miss Hooper’s best guarantee of safety at present.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Moran revealed his truer self by leering at Sherlock and saying, “So, is she as good a tumble as she appears to be? The quiet, demure types always turn out to be the most boisterous between the sheets, in my experience.”

Sherlock had never pretended to be interested in any such lascivious banter in the past, and saw no reason to change his attitude now. “What occurs between myself and Miss Hooper in private is not something I care to discuss with anyone, if you don’t mind. Sir,” he added stiffly. “I am, however, quite ready to receive whatever new assignment you might have for me and my men, since I presume that is the true reason you’ve asked me to remain behind.”

Moran, who had retaken his seat, gave Sherlock a narrow stare. “Yes, you’re right. There’s a nest of rebels holed up not forty miles from here, according to intelligence I’ve received this morning. I’ll need you to roust them out.”

The talk remained on military matters for the next hour; they were soon joined by two of the other officers as strategies were suggested and plans were laid. Nevertheless, Sherlock knew with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that the ‘honour’ he’d been given by taking on so important a mission was not meant as anything more than a test of his loyalty at best – and at worst, the means of his possible demise.


	5. Enacting A New Deception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: The talk remained on military matters for the next hour; Sherlock and Colonel Moran were soon joined by two of the other officers as strategies were suggested and plans were laid. Nevertheless, Sherlock knew with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that the 'honour' he'd been given by taking on so important a mission was not meant as anything more than a test of his loyalty at best – and at worst, the means of his possible demise._

Sherlock returned after his meeting with Colonel Moran, tersely explaining that he would be leaving in two days’ time for an extended mission. Doing what, he naturally chose not to share with her; nor did Molly ask for details. The tight press of his lips and his clipped words were more than enough warning that any requests for elucidation would not be well received.

On being left her to her own devices for the remainder of the morning while Sherlock went about his usual duties – with a less-than-subtle parting comment about his socks needing darning, and the vague assurance that Wiggins might be able to find her whatever she needed to complete such a task – she set about putting the small house to rights. He’d left his nightshirt hanging half-off the bed, and although she’d hesitated before touching it, eventually she’d plucked up the nerve to hang it neatly on the peg holding his maroon dressing-gown. The rest of the morning was spent in such domestic tasks as the rain again commenced; autumn was well and truly on its way, she thought ruefully as she fretted over the state of her garden back home. Her aunt shouldn’t have to tend it on her own, but there was little choice in the matter.

In spite of her wish to be back where she belonged, living her own life again, Molly couldn’t help but think wistfully of how much nicer that life would be were she sharing it with someone special. Someone not unlike a certain British officer who made her cheeks redden and sent wicked thoughts racing through her mind every time she saw him. She huffed impatiently as she caught herself smoothing her fingers over the fine linen shirt she was reattaching a button to; how had the man brought her to such a state in just a few short days? Yes, she’d secretly thought him rather dashing when she’d first seen him in Baxton a bare three months earlier. Yes, she’d also found his shrewd analysis of her fellow townsfolk amusing as well as devastatingly accurate. Yes, he’d saved her life. Yes to all, but she would do well to remember that he was still the enemy no matter what he’d done to protect her from her own folly, rather than allow herself to pine for a man she could never truly have!

She was somewhat taken aback as she realized how fully Sherlock now occupied her thoughts, comforting herself with the knowledge that it was simply gratitude to him. Gratitude - and of course base physical desire, which she would need to purge from her heart before she allowed anything more untoward to happen between them. It was enough of a stain on her soul that she’d enjoyed the kisses they’d shared so very much, and lacked the true repentance that would make praying for forgiveness more than mere lip-service!

Although there was much to be said about his very, very fine lips…

With another huff of exasperation, Molly tossed aside the mending and busied herself with other chores.

Once the entire house was as clean and organized as she could manage, she reluctantly returned to the mending pile, wishing desperately that she’d thought to ask her aunt so send along the medical journals her father had left her after his passing. Anything to keep her mind away from the man whose home she currently shared!

Shortly after the church bells rang the noon hour Sherlock returned, looking damp and miserable. She looked up from the button she was sewing back on yet another of his shirts. She’d found this one lying carelessly on the floor beneath his bed during her cleaning. She rose to her feet to greet him, gratefully laying aside the half-finished work. “Are we summoned to the colonel’s presence for luncheon?” she asked, pleased at how steady her voice remained in spite of the excited drumming of her heart at the sight of him, no matter how water-logged he might be.’

Sherlock shook his head, carelessly tossing his wet hat onto the trunk next to the still-open door and raking his fingers through the damp curls that had fallen over his forehead. “No, Moran traditionally only dines with fellow officers in either the morning or the evening, and never twice in the same day. We’re safe from his prying eyes for the moment. Dr. Watson, however, _will_ be joining us.” Without another word – and without so much as closing the door – he strode past her, shedding his wet outer garments and dropping them carelessly to the floor as he went. Then he disappeared into the bedroom, leaving Molly to gape in angry astonishment at the arrogance of the man. Did he truly expect her to clean up after him as if she were a chambermaid?

If not for the fact that Dr. Watson was on his way, she grumbled to herself as she reluctantly retrieved the wet garments and laid them over the grate to dry, she certainly _would_ have left them where they lay! And then of course there were the puddles to wipe up, and the mending to return to the basket she’d found to use for such homey tasks. And to think, only moments ago she’d  been idealizing that man!

**oOo**

 When Sherlock emerged from the room a few minutes later he discovered, much to his surprise, that his discarded clothing had been neatly hung to dry in front of the fire, that the table had been set for three with the china he’d brought from England, and that Molly was busy with the kettle.

Clearing his throat in order to catch her attention, he offered a stiff bow. “Thank you,” he said gruffly. When she offered him an inquisitive look, he elaborated, “For all...this.” He gestured toward the fire and the table, and she dropped a small curtsey and dimpled before returning to her task.

He stood like a man under a spell, entranced by the sight of her performing the same mundane tasks usually carried out by Wiggins. Why was it that such tasks were utterly boring when his corpsman performed them, and yet so absorbing when it was Molly bent over to place another log on the fire?  

Hmm, perhaps the answer to that question was not so elusive as it seemed at first; discreetly adjusting his trousers, Sherlock murmured an excuse about visiting the privy, hurrying off before Molly could take note of his current predicament. A few minutes spent contemplating all the ways his upcoming mission could go wrong worked as well as a dash of cold water on his privates, although it did nothing to help his mood.

The problem wasn’t his physical attraction to Miss Molly Hooper; that was something he was used to, and well able to control. No, it was his growing appreciation for her quick wits, her passionate belief in her cause, and her determination not to allow her present circumstances to wear her down. All admirable qualities on their own, but when packaged with a woman whose face and figure were exactly the sort to most excite a physical reaction within his body, they combined to ensure that the situation he faced bordered on the intolerable.

For the first time in his eight-and-twenty years, Sherlock Holmes wondered if he might have waded into waters too deep for him to navigate. Perhaps a dangerous mission was exactly the tonic he needed to clear his mind.

He returned to find that John had arrived during his brief absence, and was entertaining Molly with the story of how the two of them had first met in London, before their mutual enlistment into the military. “He was entirely accurate as to the unfortunate habits of my elder sibling, although he neglected to deduce the most pertinent fact: that ‘Harry’ is my sister and not my brother!”

Molly laughed appreciatively, and Sherlock noted the way her gaze flicked toward him as he joined them in the small sitting area in front of the fire. “What Dr. Watson fails to remember is that I was entirely unaware at the time of the diminutive form of the name Harriet. And of course, the affectionate nature of the engraving…”

“Yes, well, enough about that,” John interrupted him hastily, a slight flush appearing on his cheeks.

Sherlock frowned; why on Earth was his friend so intent on changing the subject? Ah, yes, of course; he was far more uncomfortable with his sister’s so-called ‘unnatural’ interest in those of her own sex, than he was with her unfortunate drunkenness. With a mental shrug, he allowed John to steer the conversation into less troublesome waters, although he caught the slight frown that Molly gave as he did so. She was sharp enough to recognize when something was being avoided, and he expected she would interrogate him on the matter once they were alone.

Fortunately for John, Sherlock had never been one to allow secrets to spill from his lips simply because of a pretty face and trim figure. Even if said features accompanied a bright, inquisitive mind and passionate nature, fierce loyalty and unquestioned bravery…

Damn, he was doing it again, allowing his mind to linger on Molly’s many fine qualities instead of focusing on more important subjects. What those more important subjects might be currently escaped him, but he was certain they existed.

**oOo**

 Luncheon was an entirely civilized affair, with Molly steering the conversation to neutral topics with Dr. Watson’s willing and enthusiastic assistance. Each time Sherlock attempted to digress into discussion of the war or politics or even (once) religion, he was very politely, but very firmly shut down. He seemed baffled and uneasy, as if not used to being treated thus, and Molly caught Dr. Watson stifling more than one smile at his friend’s discomfiture.

“Will you be joining us for supper as well, Dr. Watson?” she asked as the men prepared to take their leave of her for the afternoon.

It was an impulsive question, very forward of her, but she found herself uneasy at the idea of spending an evening alone with Sherlock. Especially since he’d warned her that he would not be sleeping on the hearth from now on, lest someone (by whom she understood him to mean Sergeant Moriarty) discover the truth of their sham relationship.

After a quick glance at Sherlock, Dr. Watson smiled and nodded. “Yes, of course, Miss Hooper, I should be delighted. At what time should I join you?”

“Eight o’clock, if you please,” she replied with a small curtsey. “I’ve enjoyed your company, Doctor, and I know Captain Holmes does as well.”

‘Captain Holmes’ let forth with a very inelegant snort. “All this formality, ridiculous!” he snapped. “Molly and I call each other by our Christian names, John, and you should as well, at least when we three are alone together!”

Dr. Watson frowned, giving Sherlock his patented ‘that was a bit not good look’, which his friend blithely ignored, instead focusing all his attention on Molly. “As John is our only co-conspirator,” Sherlock said in a low voice, moving closer to her than was strictly necessary, “it seems only reasonable that the three of us dispense with unnecessary formality, don’t you agree, Molly?”

She couldn’t held the small shiver that ran over her frame at both the intensity of his gaze and the intimate way in which he spoke her name. The sound of Dr. Watson - John - clearing his throat caused them both to start and look away from one another. “I have no objections to the informality Sherlock has proposed,” the doctor said with a warm smile. “As long as you do not object to the slight impropriety, of course!”

Molly gave a small laugh. “Considering the circumstances of our association, I fail to see how one more impropriety can make any difference. John,” she added deliberately. Testing the waters.

He bowed and smiled. “Molly,” he said, and in that moment she believed that, no matter which side of the current conflict fate had placed them, she would always find a friend in John Watson. 

**oOo**

As soon as the door had shut behind them, John turned to Sherlock with a grin. “So,” he said in his most amiable tone, “would you care to tell me how things are progressing with the young lady?”

It was a question that could be easily overheard and mistaken for simple prurient interest, but Sherlock knew better. Scowling, he quickened his stride. “What happens between Miss Hooper and myself remains no one’s business but our own, John,” he said loudly, a quick plan forming in his mind. Should the two of them be seen quarreling over Miss Hooper, others might be convinced that John Watson was now a weakness that could be exploited. And to have a spy in the enemy camp, as it were, would be no small advantage at this time.

A pity John wasn’t as nearly as quick-witted as he could be; instead of playing along, he hurried his own footsteps, a frown wrinkling his forehead as he caught up to his friend. “It was a simple question, Sherlock, with no harm meant,” he said.

They neared the stables, and Sherlock noted a lack of others nearby, only young Martin who was currying the Colonel’s favorite, a bad-tempered stallion aptly named ‘Daemon’. While the lad was occupied with keeping the animal restrained so he could complete his chores, Sherlock swiftly pulled John into the unoccupied building, after a quick glance to ensure that no other eyes were upon them. “First things first,” he said. Speaking rapidly, he explained the mission Moran had ordered him to undertake, not minimizing the risks. “While I’m gone, I’ll need you to keep Molly safe from our dear Colonel’s depredations.”

John nodded, his jaw set firmly. Sherlock knew he could count on him for this part of the plan; it was the second half that might prove problematic. “And I’ve decided the best way for you to do that is for you and I to quarrel.”

John’s brow furrowed. “How –” he began, only to have Sherlock run roughshod over his words.

“We shall quarrel over Miss Hooper,” he announced. “Tonight, you will join us for supper as arranged, but will storm out early and appear to be the worse for drink. Seeing you in such a state will excite a great amount of interest amongst our fellow officers as well as others, which will of course encourage them to ply you with further drink in order to obtain your story. Which,” he added gleefully, “you will happily supply.”

John, who had remained silent and stony-faced during this sudden rush of words, finally spoke. “And how, exactly, will this keep Miss Hooper safe?”

His friend quickly explained his reasoning, to which John listened attentively, if sceptically. “Moran and Moriarty will never fully trust you, of course, but they suspect everyone of plotting against them and wouldn’t trust their own mothers. But there are others who might let something slip if they believe you will share your gossip with them, and everyone knows I am far from the most beloved member of this company.” This last was delivered with an eye-roll that clearly indicated Sherlock’s lack of caring as to his popularity.

“But everyone knows that we have been good friends for years,” John objected. “How will they possibly believe we could have a falling-out? Especially at what might be viewed as a rather convenient time?”

“No one has seen me involved with a woman before,” Sherlock reminded him. “And what more common way for friends to fall out than over a woman?”

John had no reply to that question, and Sherlock was quick to press his point. “It doesn’t have to be that you share an interest in her; it could be something else, that you feel I’ve treated her poorly or that I don’t deserve her.”

“You don’t,” John replied flatly. “You are far too rude, cold and insufferable for any woman to put up with.” He softened the bluntness of his words - which Sherlock knew to be entirely truthful - by smiling and shaking his head. “However, from what I’ve observed, it’s far too late for anyone to point out your failings to the young lady, as it is clear to anyone with eyes that, no matter how this relationship came about, she is already quite smitten with you.”

The sound of the door being pushed wider open caught their attention before Sherlock could respond to that preposterous observation. He took immediate advantage of the interruption, saying loudly, “Yes, Watson, I am more than aware of my personal failings. However, as I said before, what happens between Miss Hooper and myself is no one’s business but our own.”

This time John was ready, and heatedly replied, “However true that may be, Holmes, you must admit that this entire situation is your fault. Whatever possessed you to ask the lady to play hide-and-seek in your personal papers? Surely you must have realized what a dangerous position you’ve put her in by doing so!”

Sherlock gave a shrug, his face schooled into an indifferent mask. “She knows that I am easily bored, Watson; this was merely an attempt to gauge how far she was willing to go in order to retain my attention. Yes, this has led to some temporary discomfiture on both our parts, but you must admit, it is certainly not boring!” With a bark of laughter, he clapped John on the shoulder, then turned and headed for the stable door.

He gave a curt nod to the pair of corporals loitering there, pretending not to notice their avid interest in his conversation with the good doctor. They snapped off a pair of half-way decent salutes, which he returned before striding off as if his business at the stable was finished. It was a bit of a risk, leaving John behind to fend for himself, but he was confident that his friend would faithfully carry out the ruse they’d decided upon.

  
Now all he had to do was inform Molly.


	6. Idle Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a mite bit heated between Our Hero and Our Heroine

Molly was surely going to go insane from boredom, and it had only been three days since she’d been forced into this ridiculous farce in order to save her own life. Captain Holmes – Sherlock – was off on the mission he’d undertaken at Moran’s behest, and if she remained for one more minute inside the four walls of their small house she would surely scream.

She dropped the piece of mending she’d been struggling with – she was by no means the best seamstress, entirely because of a disinclination to practice, as her Aunt Martha often chided – and rose to her feet, determined to find some way to keep her sanity intact. She carefully arranged her shawl and mobcap, just as carefully not looking at the bed as she pulled the garments from the peg on the back of the door. The bed she and Sherlock had been sharing until his departure only this morning.

The bed - or, more correctly, the room - where… _certain activities_ …had very nearly occurred not too many hours previously.

Her cheeks grew hot as memories of the night washed over her in a relentless tide, the words she and Sherlock had exchanged as fresh as if they had been spoken only moments earlier instead of hours…

_The Previous Night  
_

“I’m not certain I agree with this ruse you’ve decided to pile on top of our current deception,” Molly said doubtfully as she settled onto the chair opposite the one Sherlock normally favored. “It’s not a game we’re playing, after all. 

She and Sherlock were enjoying, if that was the word, a post-prandial glass of wine now that Dr. Watson had retired for the evening. He’d been a perfect guest, someone whose company she’d been beginning to enjoy...until Sherlock had ruined things by informing her of the scheme the two men had concocted without so much as consulting her.

She’d hardly tasted her dinner, her appetite well and truly destroyed by Sherlock’s blithe assumption that she would simply fall into line every time he issued an edict. Dr. Watson, sensing her perturbation, had made his excuses and left the two of them alone. Molly could see that this caused her erstwhile lover considerable consternation, which puzzled her; why, the man almost acted as if he had no desire to be alone with her!

Which, upon reflection, was hardly surprising. He’d already bestowed several heated kisses on her not-unwilling person, and had warned her that he would not be sleeping on the hearth from now on. Which meant they would be sharing the bed, albeit chastely; was it anticipation of an uneasy night’s rest with her representing Temptation that had him so unsettled...or was it the possibility that one or the other them might actually fail to resist the other’s charms?

Charms which were sorely lacking at the moment as he responded to her protests. “Whether you agree with it or not is beside the point.” She watched as he hunted about for his pipe and tobacco, and took some petty pleasure in the fact that he hadn’t realized that she’d moved them to the sideboard after dinner. “Dr. Watson and I have already set it into motion, and there is nothing for it but for you to play your part.” He gave up on his search, at least temporarily and instead retook his seat and raised his wine glass to his lips. “Or do you not feel yourself capable of enacting such a deception?”

His raised eyebrow and slight smirk as he sipped his burgundy seemed designed solely to goad her into a temperamental response; she therefore did nothing but take a thoughtful sip of her own wine and turn her gaze toward the fireplace. “Hmm, I suppose if you feel it necessary to further complicate an already fraught situation with such theatrics, then I have no choice but to accede to your request.” She looked over at him. “And how shall I perform in your absence, Sherlock? Shall I loudly accuse you of infidelity with some unknown other woman? Shall I then throw myself wantonly into Dr. Watson’s arms in a public place and declaim your perfidy to the world? If I cut up some onions beforehand, I’m certain I can shed some very convincing tears!”

Sherlock rose abruptly to his feet to glare down at her. “Woman, this is no joking matter!” he thundered.

She rose to her feet as well, determined not to remain in an inferior position to him. Raising her chin in what she knew he would see as a challenging manner - as well he should! - she said, “And _I_ can assure _you_ , I am in no joking humour! Without consulting me, you and Dr. Watson have hatched this, this hare-brained, lack-witted scheme to add to the deception we already find ourselves embroiled in…”

“A deception, might I remind you, which was created entirely for your benefit,” Sherlock bit out.

“And which I never asked you to do!” Molly half-shouted in exasperation. With an uneasy look at the windows bracketing the front door, she lowered her voice. “I simply wish to point out to you that any plan with so many extraneous layers is bound to be found out far more quickly than…”

“No one will discover the truth,” Sherlock said arrogantly, although he, too, lowered his voice to a more intimate volume. “They’re too dull-witted, every one of them. Oh, Moriarty is sly, I’ll grant you that, and Moran is dangerous due entirely to his rank and position, but I can assure you, madam, that I can think rings around not only the pair of them, but every man, woman and child in this town. Yourself included!”

They glared at one another for a long moment before Molly gulped down the last of her wine in  a very unladylike manner. “Very well, _Captain_ Holmes,” she said, placing heavy emphasis on his rank. “If that is what you believe, then who am I, a poor, simple woman, to argue?” With a sound very like a huff she betook herself to the sideboard, sat her glass on the wooden top, and snatched up his pipe and tobacco. Immediately she turned herself about, nearly hurling the items at him as she marched across the room. “Enjoy your masculine habits,” she said curtly. “I’m off to bed. I find myself in need of early retirement this evening.”

She left him alone to his ruminations, being sure to close and latch the bedroom door behind her. If he was determined to enact this idiotic ruse of his, then surely a lover’s spat with him sleeping on the hearth and her in the bedroom was perfectly in character!

Sherlock, however, had other plans, as she quickly discovered. No sooner had she donned her nightdress when the latch lifted, eased upward by the simple expedient of a bayonet slipped between door and frame. “What are you doing?” she asked him crossly, to hide her sudden panic at the thought of them being in the bedroom together. And not a panic born of fear that he might take liberties; no, it was panic solely due to her hopes that he might...that he would attempt…

 _Stop it, Molly,_ she scolded herself as he stepped into the room, deliberately closing the door behind him. _Don’t be such a ninny. The only thing he’ll attempt is to raise your temper once more._

Indeed, that seemed to be case as he removed his night-shirt from the peg on the back of the door. Without speaking he crossed the small space and sat on the edge of the bed, completely ignoring her as she edged away from both man and furnishings. He’d already removed his boots and jacket; his braces were dangling over his narrow hips and his shirt sleeves were bereft of cufflinks. When he began unbuttoning his shirt and tugging it free of his trousers, she gave a squeak and made as if to flee the room.

He moved so swiftly she almost would be willing to attribute supernatural abilities to him; before she’d done more than turn and place her hand on the latch, his hand was on her wrist, tugging her around so adroitly that she was facing him with her back against the stout oaken door almost before she could realize it. “Where are you going, Molly?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine - and affected other parts of her anatomy not so innocent in nature!

“I - I find that I am not quite ready to retire after all,” she said in a near whisper as she stared up at him. He still held her wrist in his grasp, and his other hand had come to rest on the door very near her head. “Besides, it would add verisimilitude to our supposed quarrel were one of us to be found, ah, sleeping elsewhere this night.”

He lowered his head to peer at her; in the dimness of the room, lit only by a single candle, she could barely make out his features, but his eyes held a certain gleam she found most enticing. Heat rose in her cheeks as she fought the urge to reach up and undo the ribbon holding his hair away from his face. Perhaps the ministers were correct in characterising women as wanton creatures who needed a man’s hand to keep them firmly under control; she certainly was having a great deal of difficulty in mastering this sudden desire to allow Sherlock more liberties with her person!

“No,” he said, his grip on her wrist tightening the smallest bit. As if he feared she would slip his grasp. Not that she had anywhere to go, but the way he was looking at her, their intimate position, made her heart beat faster and spread the flush from her cheeks to her bosom. “We will share this bed tonight, Molly, unless you wish to confirm Moriarty’s suspicions.” At her surprised start, he nodded grimly. “Yes, Wiggins gave the pre-arranged signal informing me that the good Sergeant is lurking outside, no doubt eager to report any suspicious actions to Colonel Moran.”

“But surely he cannot overhear us within these walls,” Molly protested. “Unless he seeks to enter and spy directly upon us, we should have naught to fear!”

Sherlock gave her a quelling look. “There are far too many ways for an expert eavesdropper to overhear private words...especially,” he added pointedly, “when voices have risen in anger.”

Molly blanched at the thought that they might already have been found out, but Sherlock’s next words at least partially reassured her. “It’s unlikely he overheard us quarreling, or else he’d have already gone panting to his master with the news of our deception.”

“I will try to keep a firmer hold on my temper in future,” Molly said humbly, feeling rightly chastised for her failure to do so earlier. She had every right to disagree with him, but must remember to keep her voice low so that none could overhear them. Some spy she was, she thought in disgust; no wonder she’d been caught out so quickly on her very first venture!

Sherlock was still speaking, either unaware of her inner turmoil or, more likely, uncaring. “We must use our knowledge of Moriarty’s presence to our advantage,” he said, keeping his voice a low, nearly seductive murmur. “He will be unable to see anything, but he most certainly can hear. Before he can be shown evidence of a lover’s quarrel,” his voice dropped to a veritable purr as their eyes met, “he must first be given evidence that we are, indeed, lovers.”

Molly’s lips parted, but before she could speak he lowered his head and claimed her mouth with his own in a heated kiss.

**oOo**

He hadn’t meant to kiss her, truly he hadn’t. All he’d intended to do was to convince her that they needed to share his bed just this once, before he left on a mission that he knew might very well mean his death. She remained unaware of that fact, or at least unaware that he believed Moran had no intention of his surviving this skirmish-to-be. They were at war, after all, and Molly was no head-in-the-clouds dreamer who refused to recognize the dangers involved.

Nor had he been exaggerating the possibility that Sergeant Moriarty might find a way to overhear them in order to report back to Moran. He would put very little past that sneaky bastard or his master.

No, all he’d intended was to impress upon her once again the need for them to make their deception - their initial deception, not the one he’d concocted earlier this very day - as believable as possible. He truly believed he’d had no ulterior motive in enticing her to sleep next to him tonight other than that.

Until, that is, he’d seen her silhouette beneath her nightdress as she turned to flee. The candlelight in that moment had been angled just right for him to catch a fleeting, shadowed glimpse of her trim figure, the curve of her hip, the swell of her breasts...and all sense had fled. He’d been on his feet before he’d known it, reaching for her, spinning her to face him, grasping her slender, fragile wrist in his hand as he reminded her of the danger Moriarty presented. He’d been so close he could inhale her subtle scent, could see the rapid beating of her pulse in her throat and the expansion of her pupils, and before he’d known it, he was kissing her.

Not only kissing her, but pressing his body against hers, trapping her between his heated form and the sturdy oak door. Sturdy enough that, should he so choose, he could easily lift her up and grind his hardened prick into her sex and have no fear that the support would give way beneath them.

Molly, it would appear, was of a like mind; she wasn’t pushing him away but instead had clasped her hands behind his neck in order to draw him closer. Actions which he thoroughly approved. And when he did, indeed, press his body tightly to hers, she gasped against his lips, her eyes screwed shut and her chest heaving. The fine lawn of her night-dress might as well have been made of gossamer, and he fancied the tight buds of her nipples against his nearly-bare chest were less due to the chill in the air than to the heat of their mutual arousal.

What was it about this woman that made him throw caution to the wind? Taken individually her feminine charms were somewhat lacking, especially in comparison to the great beauties of London, but as a whole...as a whole, Molly Hooper was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman and had never known actually existed.

She’d not yet pulled her hair into a night-braid, and he found the sight of those chestnut tresses tumbling over her shoulders just as enticing as the soft, white mounds of her breasts. She would never overflow a gown even when well-corseted, but as he quickly discovered, they fitted quite well into his hands.

“Sherlock,” she gasped as he squeezed experimentally. He felt her hands slipping down the back of his neck, sliding across the breadth of his shoulders, shyly pressing themselves against his chest...pushing him away.

Pushing him away, truly? Had he so misread her desire for him? No, it was clear in her eyes when he met her gaze, but also clear was her rising panic.

“Forgive me,” he said gruffly as he pulled his hands away from her breasts as speedily as if they’d suddenly caught fire. “I forget myself.”

She was breathing hard, nearly gasping, her eyes so wide they seemed to take up more than half their allotted space. “As do I,” she finally managed to whisper. “So much so that I fear our sharing of a bed might prove to be too much of a temptation for me to resist.”

“I shall sleep atop the covers clad as I am,” Sherlock replied. Although he, too, felt it was a mistake for them to continue with any sort of physical closeness for their own sakes, he also stood firm in his resolve that to do otherwise would be folly for the sake of their deception. “However, I shall wait until you have fallen asleep before joining you. I believe we are both in need of some small recovery time at the moment.”

With that, he reached for the door handle, waiting with false patience for her to stumble out of the way and allow him to pass.

When he returned, hours later, he knew she was no more asleep than he was, but allowed her the courtesy of pretence as he eased his way onto the bed.

It was far, far safer for both of them that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter:  
> Sherlock Almost Dies  
> Molly Frets and Sighs  
> John Fights Some Guys  
> Wiggins Cracks Wise


	7. Uneasy Circumstances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: “I shall sleep atop the covers clad as I am,” Sherlock replied. Although he, too, felt it was a mistake for them to continue with any sort of physical closeness for their own sakes, he also stood firm in his resolve that to do otherwise would be folly for the sake of their deception. “However, I shall wait until you have fallen asleep before joining you. I believe we are both in need of some small recovery time at the moment.”_
> 
> _With that, he reached for the door handle, waiting with false patience for her to stumble out of the way and allow him to pass._
> 
> _When he returned, hours later, he knew she was no more asleep than he was, but allowed her the courtesy of pretence as he eased his way onto the bed._
> 
> _It was far, far safer for both of them that way._

Sherlock awoke feeling rather disoriented the next morning. This was due in part to the fact that he’d not expected to sleep at all, but mostly because he had, at some point during his slumbers, managed to wrap his body around the slight, still-sleeping form of Molly Hooper.

The realisation of his position in the bed was made even more disconcerting, not so much by the fact that he’d awoken with an erection, but that said erection was pressed firmly against Molly Hooper’s delectably soft bottom. His hands, he swiftly discovered, had betrayed him as well; the one was trapped between the bed and the curve of her hip, whilst the other was resting comfortably against the swell of her breast.

Unbidden, his mind drew forth an image of her waking to find the pair of them thus entwined, turning in his arms and drawing him down for a passionate kiss. And why should he not allow such fancies to be brought to reality? He wanted her, and she was not indifferent to him; he was being sent on a mission that could very well lead to his death, leaving her alone and virtually unprotected. Yes, John and Wiggins would look after her, but why should he and Molly deny themselves the comfort of one another’s bodies?

She sighed and stretched a little in her sleep, murmuring unintelligibly before falling silent again, her breathing deep and even. His own breath had caught in his throat, and his mind provided several ungentlemanly thoughts before he quickly brought it back under control. “No,” he muttered, easing his hands - and indeed, his entire body - away from hers.

Although he had no doubt that she was as attracted to him as he was to her, she had made it clear as crystal the previous night that she had no wish to act on that attraction. And no matter how atypical gentleman he might be, he was certainly no cad to force a woman against her will!

With true regret - and an inconvenient erection to deal with - he withdrew from bed, leaving the bedroom as quietly as he could and allowing Molly to slumber on. A quick visit to the privy was definitely in order.

**oOo**

 The soft click of the door latch was all it took for Molly to awaken. She could still feel the warmth from Sherlock’s absent form; giving into a childish impulse, she rolled over and buried her head in his pillow, breathing in the scent of him. His presence by her side had been troublesome, not only to her waking mind but her dreaming self as well - and yet she would not have traded that troublesome night for a thousand sound sleeps alone in her own bed.

Ah, the dreams she’d had...the one right before she awoke was enough to bring a maidenly blush to her cheeks, for she could have taken oath that she’d truly felt his hands upon her body. Indeed, her nipples were still taut and aching, as if he’d teased them through the soft fabric of her night-dress. And the ache between her legs...she blushed even redder at the images her sleeping mind had conjured for her: Sherlock, splendidly nude, brushing his fingers over her sex, kissing her with those lush, perfectly shaped lips…

“Molly Hooper, you are truly a wanton woman,” she mumbled to herself, reluctantly rising and stepping over to the wash-stand to splash some cool water - and with God’s grace, some common sense - onto her heated cheeks.

When she stepped into the main room it was to catch sight of Sherlock hurrying out of the back door, no doubt on his way to the privy. She made a face, having need of that facility for herself; she was reluctant to use the pot under the bed unless absolutely necessary. Yes, she would be sure to give it a thorough scrub after, but she’d always viewed the act of relieving oneself in the house as rather uncivilised.

Their individual needs having been attended to, they barely spoke to one another as they broke their fast and made their preparations for the day, and then only about his daft scheme to make everyone believe he and John had had a falling-out over her. When she reminded Sherlock that John had neglected to exit their home as angrily as they’d originally discussed, he dismissed her concerns. “John will be certain to correct that error today, I have no doubt,” he said with a breezy wave of his hand, and Molly had no choice but to hope that it was so, as Sherlock intended to act as if the falling-out had, indeed, occurred.

They finished the rest of the meal in near silence, but when Molly saw him off at the door, he made certain to swoop in for a swift kiss. She gasped and shooed him away, just as she’d seen her neighbour’s wife do when her husband took just such semi-public liberties back home in Baxton.

She greeted Corporal Wiggins cordially, then watched as Sherlock crossed the town square on his way to Colonel Moran’s headquarters in the inn. She frowned she saw him exchange stiff bows with John Watson, who made a point of _not_ remaining by Sherlock’s side as they made their way to the same destination. The game, it would appear, was afoot.

For her part, she made certain that Wiggins was within earshot before she muttered something uncomplimentary about how Captain Holmes needed to learn to behave more civilly when they had guests. She glared after the two men, gave a slightly theatrical start as if just noticing Wiggins’ proximity, then hurriedly re-entered the house. She made sure to allow the door to close with more force than was necessary, although falling shy of actually slamming it.

Once inside, she leaned against the wooden panel, wishing - rather uselessly, as she well knew! - that Sherlock had not chosen to involve John in this additional subterfuge. Still, what was done was done, and clearly John had elected to play his part in the supposed rift between friends. She would have to ask Sherlock about it when he joined her for the noon meal.

With a sigh, she re-opened the door and caught Wiggins’ attention. If she was to act as Sherlock’s mistress, then she needed to do more than darn his socks or allow the occasional glimpse of him kissing her.

**oOo**

 Molly had no need to inveigle the truth from Sherlock when he made his re-apprearance, as he was all too pleased to tell her of the morning’s events - at least, those involving John Watson. It appeared that, although he’d neglected to storm out of the house after dining with them as originally planned, he’d been sure to behave as if things had gone poorly. He’d joined some of their fellow officers in a game of whist and several pints of ale, making acerbic comments about Sherlock and his ‘private situation’. But when others tried to press him for details, he’d declared himself fatigued and had instead retired to his own quarters.

“How did you discover all this? Did he tell you?” Molly asked as Sherlock poured them each a glass of wine.

He shook his head and took his seat. “Wiggins,” he said succinctly. “He was most vexed at the gossip he’d heard and wished me to be informed of it immediately. I told him that Doctor Watson is entitled to whatever opinion he might wish to hold, however uninformed. And no,” he added, clearly anticipating her objections, “it was not because I wished to cause Wiggins any more vexation, but because of the presence of Sergeant Moriarty, who ‘just happened’ to be passing by on his way to procure luncheon for Colonel Moran.”

“Oh dear,” Molly murmured, somewhat vexed herself on the corpsman’s behalf. “I know it’s best to keep our secret amongst ourselves, but surely you trust Corporal Wiggins?”

“I trust his loyalty, but the man is even less capable of acting out a subterfuge than John,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“I still don’t like it,” Molly said as she took the seat he pulled out for her.

“Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear,” Sherlock said through clenched teeth as he took his own seat. “However, your dislike changes nothing.”

“Yes, I know, thank you,” Molly snapped. She took a sip of wine in an attempt to ease her growing ill-temper - to no avail. “The opinions of others mean not a whit to the great Captain Sherlock Holmes. I was certainly mistaken in my entreaty that you bring Wiggins into our little circle of conspirators; instead, I should have exhorted you to simply do without a corpsman, to create a diversionary disagreement with him and release him from his duties to you!”

Sherlock’s brow lowered at her quarrelsome words. “I can assure, madam, that if I were to discharge Wiggins he would not benefit. Our dear commanding officer would undoubtedly find some way to punish him for not performing as expected, in the name of company discipline.”

Chastened, Molly lowered her eyes and tried to concentrate on the stewed chicken and vegetables on her pewter plate. “My apologies,” she said softly, knowing that he was in the right this time. “I did not think the consequences of such actions through.” She raised troubled eyes to meet his. “But what of John? Does not distancing yourself from him place him in possible danger as well? Or is it already too late for that, owing to my intrusion into both your lives?”

It was a thought that had been troubling her, now that she’d had the time to consider the more far-reaching consequences of her impulsive decision to search Sherlock’s billet. Although the burden of potential guilt for the sham falling out between himself and John lay on his own conscience, Molly could never forget that this had all come about because of her own impulsive nature.

Sherlock was dismissive of any such possibility. “John will be fine,” he maintained as he cut into his stewed chicken. His expression turned into one of surprise, then of pleasure as he chewed and swallowed that first bite. “Either Colonel Moran has finally found a competent replacement for the idiot that normally cooks for the officers, or has allowed his own chef to feed us today.”

“Neither,” Molly replied briskly, somewhat relieved that he’d chosen to defuse the growing tension with this change of subject. When he gave her a quizzical look, she responded with a smirk worthy of the ones he normally bestowed upon those who had failed to observe something he found obvious. “You’ve neglected to consider a third possibility.” She waved her fork in the air in demonstration.

He glanced around; she watched his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of the large iron pot hanging by the fire, the wooden cutting board and knife - both clean - sitting on the sideboard, and the neatly folded pile of cloths set next to them. “ _You_ prepared our meal,” he pronounced, a definite tone of disbelief in his voice.

“You needn’t sound so shocked,” she said, unwontedly upset by his apparent dismissal of her home-making talents. “It isn’t as if I never prepared meals for my aunt and myself.”

“Yes, but doing so for her and while in your own home is quite different than doing so for me,” he was quick to point out. A small smile quirked the corners of his lips. “Dare I believe you might have forgiven me, Molly?”

“Forgiveness implies a wrong done, Sherlock,” she replied, a ridiculous thrill coursing down her spine at the low intimacy of his voice as he said her name. “So far, I must confess, you have done me no true wrong.”

“Give me time,” he replied, his gaze growing heated. Molly blushed; his words could easily be taken as a promise rather than a threat, and she knew very well what sort of promise it portended.

“I, ah, thought it might assist in our masquerade if I were to start preparing your meals myself, rather than relying on the cook-house,” she said, after subtly clearing her throat. “It was only that, I assure you.”

By the look on his face, he disbelieved her, and why shouldn’t he? She barely believed the words herself, no matter the truth of them.

Fortunately for her flustered mind, a knock at the door interrupted their - flirtation? - and she rose hastily to attend to their visitor. It was Wiggins, with a message for Sherlock that instantly changed the atmosphere of the room from verging on overheated to icily cold. “Colonel Moran wishes to see me regarding my imminent departure,” Sherlock said flatly after perusing the missive and scribbling a response for Wiggins to deliver. “At my convenience, which means he wants me to dance attendance immediately. Your pardon, Molly, but it appears you’ll have to finish this excellently prepared meal alone.”

He bowed, allowed Wiggins to assist him with his uniform jacket and hat, and left without a backward glance. An hour later he returned, mouth set in a grim line, and an hour after that Molly was kissing him good-bye and watching, John Watson by her side, as he and a troop of soldiers set out on their mission.

**oOo**

 It took only a single day after Sherlock’s leave-taking for the deception that he and Dr. Watson had had a falling-out over his treatment of Molly to bear fruit.

As ordered by Colonel Moran, she never left the house unaccompanied; since Wiggins had gone with Sherlock, her escort today was Doctor Watson, bringing her to purchase some items she needed. Her supposed lover had left her a generous purse to manage the household in his absence; she’d been aghast at the amount but reluctantly accepted his reasoning. “There is no point in my bringing it with me, and to give it to John would belie our falling-out. And other than the good doctor, there is no one here I trust to watch over it.”

She’d seen the reasoning, of course, just as she’d seen the reasoning behind the very public kiss he’d bestowed upon her just before he mounted his horse. She’d not had to falsify her doleful expression as he rode off; being without his protection put her in an even more vulnerable position than before, even with John Watson conspicuously by her side. If Colonel Moran or Sergeant Moriarty  wished to take advantage of her vulnerability, she had very few recourses open to her.

This was proven unnervingly true when she found herself accosted by Sergeant Moriarty in the the small dry goods store on the town square. She was alone for the moment; John had been momentarily delayed by a fellow officer as she bargained for some soap and other necessities.

“Miss Hooper,” Moriarty said, sketching a mocking bow as she turned to face him, a pleasant expression pasted on her features. “I must say I’m impressed by quickly you took advantage of Captain Holmes’ absence.” He raised an insolent eyebrow. “Could it be that you’re worried that he might not return, and seek to secure yourself a new protector?”

“Doctor Watson is merely acting as my escort,” she replied stiffly. “You know very well that Colonel Moran himself has decreed that I must be accompanied at all times when I am not at home.”

Moriarty raised an impertent eyebrow as she paid for her items and tucked them into her basket. “Oho, _home_ is it, now?” he sneered as he followed her to the door. “I thought home was in Baxton, with your aunt. Who,” he added as they stepped outside, “sends her regards.”

Molly stiffened and turned to glower at him. “When have you spoken to my aunt, and to what purpose?”

“Why, merely to assure her of your safety while you’re a guest here,” he replied with a shrug. He leaned forward, and Molly had to fight not to back up from either his over-familiarity or the coldness in his brown eyes. “I thought you should know that I promise to personally deliver any news to her, should something untoward happen - if, say, you were to leave us unexpectedly, without having a chance to say good-bye.” He tsked in a falsely sympathetic manner, while Molly’s hand tightened on the handle of her basket. “It would be a shame if Mistress Hudson had to join us in your stead.”

“Is there a problem, Sergeant?”

Molly had been so caught up in the not-so-thinly veiled threats Moriarty was making that she hadn’t noticed John’s approach until he was right next to her.

Moriarty came to attention. “I was merely informing Miss Hooper of my recent visit to Baxton, sir. And, of course, making certain no one annoyed her while she awaited her escort.”

“Very well, then carry on with your duties. I can assure you that I will remain by Miss Hooper’s side until she is finished with her morning’s errands,” John replied. He and Moriarty held one another’s gazes until finally the sergeant snapped off a salute, turned on his heels and sauntered away, whistling ‘Yankee Doodle’.

“Are you all right?” John asked in a low voice as he offered his arm.

Molly accepted it gratefully. “Yes, I’m fine.” She glanced over her shoulder; Moriarty was nowhere in sight, thank goodness. She repeated the gist of the conversation to the doctor, whose scowl grew darker and darker as she spoke.

When she finished, they had nearly reached the house, and it was clear that John’s temper was getting the better of him. “That blackguard! How dare he threaten your aunt in such a manner! He deserves a sound thrashing!”

Molly couldn’t agree more, but kept silent, sensing that it wouldn’t take much for him to make good on that threat. She’d not yet witnessed his temper, and had no desire to do so, especially not on her own behalf. She’d made no promises not to break for freedom at the first opportunity, but the longer she remained the more difficult it became to even consider such a thing. Yes, it was her patriotic duty to escape, to find Captain Lestrade and inform him of what she’d learned during her enforced stay, but to do so would betray good men like Doctor Watson...and Sherlock Holmes.

Her troubled thoughts kept her company long after she and John had parted ways, and continued to plague her during the entire week that passed before Sherlock’s return.


	8. An Unhappy Return

**One Week Later**

The quiet of the early morning routine into which Molly had fallen since Sherlock’s leave-taking was shattered by the sound of shouts and the thunder of horse hoofs. She hurried to the door, throwing it wide and gasping at the utter chaos that greeted her eyes: a milling mass of men and horses, soldiers and townsfolk, John Watson shouting orders, Billy Wiggins scrambling to assist a limping man...it took far too long for her mind to translate what her eyes were showing her, but once they did she let out a gasp of mingled shock and horror.

Incongruously, it was Sherlock’s horse, Redbeard, that helped her make sense of the scene before her eyes. He stood, riderless and shivering with sweat while young Martin tried to coax him off toward the stables. If Redbeard was here, then this must be Sherlock’s men she was seeing. Many of them were wounded, some quite badly, but of their commanding officer there was no sign.

Heedless of her own safety, she rushed outside, intent on discovering the full nature of the calamity she faced, only to be stopped by a hand on her wrist. She turned her head, intent on giving whoever had been so casual with her person the sharp edge of her tongue, only to find herself face to face with the very man she sought. “Sherlock!” she cried, flinging her arms round his neck in relief. “Thank God!”

“Thank the fact that your countrymen were so easily rousted from ambush, rather,” he corrected her, wincing and lurching. She immediately let go her inappropriate embrace, only to catch him by the arms as she saw the grey cast to his face, the hollow expression in his eyes...and the blood soaking the upper thigh of his uniform trousers.

“You’re injured,” she gasped as he swayed on his feet. Only the sturdy wall of the house and perhaps her own hold on his arms kept him from collapsing - and, of course, that indomitable will of his. “I’ll fetch John…”

He waved her away. “I can walk,” he said through gritted teeth. “There are others who require more immediate attention than I do. Just...help me to my bed so we can bind this up again. There is no bullet to remove, I assure you, as the damage was done by a bayonet. All I need is some stitches and perhaps some rest…”

While he continued to blather on, Molly took action. She slipped her shoulder beneath his arm on the uninjured side of his body, and did as he bade, assisting his limping progress into the house with Corporal Wiggins’ assistance. Once they had him sat on the edge of the bed she urged the younger man to go and do what he could to help the others. “I’ll tend to Captain Holmes myself,” she promised when he hesitated, clearly torn between doing his duty by his commander and aiding his comrades in arms. “If the wound is more serious than he claims, I’ll fetch Doctor Watson myself.”

“Just go, Wiggins,” Sherlock interjected irritably. “Leave me to the tender charms of Miss Hooper; I’ve no doubt her skills with the needle will prove far less irksome than yours.”

Wiggins looked at him askance before offering Molly a strained but grateful smile. He then turned and dashed for the door. Only when she heard it shut behind him did she turn her attention back to her patient. “That was unkind,” she chided him as she poured water from the pitcher into the basin. “Wiggins is devoted to you.”

“He’s also a terrible field medic; it would be more of a mercy to have him to stay here and assist you, rather than forcing him on the poor fools out there,” Sherlock snarled, then winced as he tried to lean forward to remove his boots. “Damnation!”

Molly ignored the profanity as she pulled out the basket of supplies she’d laid aside against just such a possibility.  “Leave your boots for now,” she instructed as she pulled out several rolls of unbleached linen, a pair of scissors, a card of needles, a spool of white thread, a small bottle of brandy, and the sharp-bladed knife she generally used for paring apples. “We’ll have to cut away your trousers anyway, and we’ll remove your boots once we’ve dealt with your injury.”

“Why do you need a knife? To slit my throat and finish the job your compatriots failed so miserably at?” Sherlock snapped - but he did as she instructed, lying down and wincing as he lifted his leg onto the bed.

“If I wanted you dead, Captain Holmes, you’d not have survived our first night together,” Molly snapped right back as she rolled up her sleeves and settled carefully on the edge of the bed beside him. “Rest assured of that. Now stay still and allow me to help you.”

Shockingly, he did exactly that, wincing a bit when she cut away the soiled fabric around his still-bleeding wound, exposing it to the air. Using the lukewarm water from the bowl she’d fetched, she carefully wiped away the encrusted blood and grime, grimacing at the sight of the jagged wound in his thigh. “A few inches higher and your assailant would have spared you any further need for a mistress,” she murmured thoughtlessly, then blushed as she realized what she’d said.

“The thought did cross my mind,” he said through gritted teeth, but there was a sardonic smile on his lips when she met his gaze, and she gave a sympathetic smile in return.

She carefully cut away the leg of his trouser, leaving the bloody fabric beneath his leg as she cleaned and dressed the wound. She took up the small bottle of brandy and first doused the injury - causing her patient to curse under his breath at the sting of the alcohol - then offered it to him to allow him to internally fortify himself for the ordeal ahead. Once he’d swallowed several mouthfuls, he nodded, and she commenced stitching up the wound. Her father swore by it, claiming that it helped prevent sepsis from setting in, and she only prayed that he’d been correct in this belief. 

She hoped she’d managed to successfully hide her nervousness at performing this medical act on him; heretofore she’d only ever practiced on corpses, and once on a gash in the leg of her aunt’s milch cow. Still, her hand was steady in spite of the butterflies churning in her stomach, and that must be counted as a win. She could feel Sherlock’s eyes upon her as she worked, making small, neat stitches in his flesh, and began to speak somewhat nervously. “I suppose you’re wondering about the alcohol. My father…”

“...was a doctor, yes, as well as the local mortician,” Sherlock finished, causing her to gape at him. “And no, your aunt didn’t tell me that, I deduced it from your methodology: you’ve clearly been trained in some informal manner, and what better way to practice than on a corpse?” He closed his eyes as she finished sewing and tied off the knot, then carefully wrapped the linen strips around his leg. His hands remained tightly clutching the bedclothes, and his knuckles were white, but he made no sound as she completed the job.

Once she’d finished, however, he began speaking as if he’d never stopped, even as she urged him out of his bloodied uniform jacket and attempted to wrest his boots from his feet. “As for the alcohol, your father must have observed at some point that injuries that had been treated thusly tended not to become infected, or at least not as often. An interesting theory - presumably he stumbled across it by accident, at a time when he had no water easily to hand during some...bloody hell!”

Molly frowned at the obscenity, but could hardly fault him for it as she’d accidentally tugged too hard at the boot she was attempting to remove from his injured leg. “Sorry!” she said, her voice a mouse’s squeak as she flushed bright red. But really, it was his own fault; she’d been so engrossed in the way he’d correctly deduced the reasons for her father’s reliance on alcohol as a cleaning tool that she’d forgotten what she was doing.

“I can manage from here, thank you,” he gritted out as the boot finally came free in her hands. “Just hand me my night-shirt and leave me to rest, if you please.”

“You’ll not take some laudanum first, for the pain?” Molly ventured to ask, eyeing him askance as he began undoing the buttons of his shirt, stubbornly working each small bone circle free in spite of his obvious discomfort.

“No.” The answer was abrupt, surly, and clearly not to be questioned. There was a story there, but not one Molly cared to chance, not just now.

All she did was nod, rising to her feet and carefully lifting the bowlful of bloodied rags to take with her. “Right. I’ll leave the scissors and knife so you can finish cutting away your trousers. And of course,” she added tartly, “you’ll be able to completely divest yourself of the rest of your clothing, wash yourself, arrange yourself beneath the coverlet after you’ve struggled into your nightshirt…”

“Just send Wiggins in to tend to me, woman!” Sherlock snarled, a fine sheen of sweat dampening his face. “You’re not wanted at the moment, so kindly do me the favour of leaving me in peace!”

Molly’s lips pinched together as she felt the blood rushing to her cheeks at the unwarranted rudeness of his words. “Wiggins, as you may recall, is otherwise occupied at the moment. On  _ your  _ specific orders. However, if my presence is so displeasing to you, I will remove myself.”

With these words, not bothering to see if he could reach the nightshirt where it had landed across the foot of the bed, she turned and left, closing the door firmly behind her.

**oOo**

Sherlock scowled as the door slammed behind Molly’s fuming form. Damn and blast the woman, why did she have to make his life so difficult? He’d been an utter fool to come to her rescue; he should have left her to Moran’s tender mercies, should have let Sergeant Moriarty question her…

Even in the heat of his anger he knew he was being utterly unreasonable, that his thoughts were unworthy not only of an officer and a gentleman, but of the lowliest thug in the mean back alleys of London. It did nothing to deter him thinking them, however, at least until he’d triumphantly (if slowly) wrestled his shirt from his body and pulled his nightshirt over his head. He paused and gazed down at his neatly wrapped wound, the image of her working to aid him bringing him out of his personal misery - and with that memory came the realization that he’d pushed her away, not because her presence annoyed him, but because it  _ didn’t _ . 

_ She  _ wasn’t the one making his life difficult; he was perfectly capable of doing that himself. And while he wanted to resent her for being the cause of Moran’s decision to send him on this ill-fated mission, it would be disingenuous - not to mention entirely unfair - for him to do so. He and Moran had been at odds ever since Sherlock had been assigned to his command, and such a transparent attempt to get him injured or killed in the field had been all but inevitable.

“Hell,” he mumbled as he realised what a colossal ass he’d made of himself.

He was made even more aware of that fact when, hours later, long after he’d given up on removing his shredded trousers and had simply collapsed back onto the bed in a fitful doze, John Watson awakened him by noisily entering the bedroom. Not by knocking; oh no, the good doctor was not so subtle as that! Sherlock was startled into wakefulness by the sound of the door slamming against the wall, then being returned to the frame with just as much force.

Sherlock raised his head from the pillow and glowered. He was about to snap out some pithy comment on his desire for privacy, but trapped the words in his mouth before they could emerge as he got a clear look at his friend.

“You look like hell,” he said frankly as John limped wearily over to the bed, his worn and battered brown physician’s case in one hand. A musket ball he’d taken in his leg two years previously had left behind an intermittent ache that became more pronounced as exhaustion - or exceedingly damp weather such as they’d been experiencing all month - overtook him.

“Yes, well, I can assure you that you look no better,” John said, sounding as weary as he looked. He placed the bag on the room’s single chair and relit several candles that Sherlock, in his peevishness, had blown out after Molly had left him. “Let’s have a look at that leg, shall we?”

“Are your other patients already cared for, that you can waste time on such a minor inconvenience?” Sherlock grumbled, but grudgingly allowed John to peel away the tattered remains of his trouser leg to look at the limb underneath.

“You’re more of a pain in the arse than a minor inconvenience,” John said, “but since you refused to allow Miss Hooper to continue to tend to you…”

“She was...coddling me too much,” Sherlock protested, knowing how ridiculous he sounded even as the words left his mouth.

John’s raised eyebrow and pursed lips told him the other man felt the same way - as his next words proved. “You sound like a petulant child,” he pronounced briskly. “But you needn’t worry, I’ve no intention of ‘coddling’ you. I won’t even open the wrappings to examine your wound; Miss Hooper told me what she did, and I approve.”   


“Then why are you here?” Sherlock asked, honestly curious.

“I am here, Sherlock, firstly because Molly was worried about you and asked me to attend you,” his friend replied.

“And secondly?” Sherlock prompted, unable to deduce the reason for himself - and quite annoyed at the fact.

“Secondly, because this is the perfect opportunity for us to discuss what happened to her in your absence. No one will question my visiting you as a patient, even after our ‘falling out’.”

Sherlock sat up far quicker than he ought, but ignored the burn of pain in his thigh as he focussed his attention on John. “What happened? She said nothing, gave no sign…”

“Sergeant Moriarty paid a call on her aunt, and made certain to inform Molly that should she disappear, Mistress Hudson would pay the price.”

Sherlock’s concerned expression became a scowl of anger. “I should have known something like this would happen, should have taken more precautions…” He made as if to rise from the bed, then sank back against the pillows, his face grey with pain. “Damn this leg,” he said feebly. “How the hell am I supposed to protect Molly when I can’t even stand on my own?”

“This injury is actually the best way you  _ can  _ protect her right now,” John interjected. At Sherlock’s incredulous glare, he explained, “You are confined to your bed. Miss Hooper will attend you. Now that she’s aware of the threat to her aunt, she’s less likely to run off at the first opportunity - and by caring for you, she’ll be given the chance to prove that she’s no danger to us. Perhaps Moran will allow you to return her home once you’ve healed.”

“Hmph,” Sherlock muttered as he worked through the permutations of John’s suggestion - it was hardly detailed enough to be given the courtesy of being called a ‘plan’. However, it was perhaps not as ridiculous as it had initially appeared. Indeed, by demonstrating her relief at his return in the way she had - surely an intimacy that had been witnessed by those inclined to report such gossip to Moriarty or Moran - she’d already laid the foundations for her own eventual release.

John was waiting less than patiently when Sherlock brought his attention back to the external world. “Sherlock? Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

“No,” his friend replied with frank honesty. “I was determining the validity of your hypothesis.”

John rolled his eyes. “And?” he prompted when Sherlock once again fell silent.

“I believe that it might - might! - be of value in convincing our dear commanding officer that our relationship is quite real,” he admitted, ignoring the clenching in his gut as he spoke. It would afford Molly the opportunity to return to her life, and free him to resume his own, unencumbered by either her person or the deception that she was his mistress.

He should be relieved. Then why, he wondered, did that thought not give him any pleasure?

 


	9. Intensive Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's recovery after his bayonet injury does not go as smoothly as either he or Molly would prefer.

In spite of Molly's careful cleansing of the bayonet wound with both alcohol and boiled water, a fever set in. Doctor Watson visited daily during that week, a week during which both he and Molly worried for his life. On the night of his crisis, however, she found herself alone with him while Doctor Watson was forced to attend to Colonel Moran, who had been showing worsening signs of extreme digestive discomfort for the last couple of days.   


“I fear dysentery,” John had quietly confided to her before leaving that day. “And I’m afraid you know what that could mean for us all."

Indeed she did. Dysentery, or the flux as it was more commonly known, was a modern-day plague, causing intestinal cramping, fever, and loose bowels. The blood in the loose stools might come from the tearing of the rectum or from some unknown internal bleeding, and its cause was a mystery. Even the fact that it afflicted more people in the humid southern portions of the continent, especially in the summer months, brought no lessening of their shared concerns; the disease had been known to tear through northern communities as well.   


There were many remedies that had been tried, none of which seemed to do more than ease the sufferer’s pain. The only two in which John pinned any faith were dogwood bark tea and opium. Molly, who had only heard about the dreadful illness second-hand, could only hope that the  colonel was suffering from something less contagious.

But both he and his alimentary ailments, whatever their source, were soon relegated to the back of her mind as Sherlock’s fever overtook him. For hours she was subjected first to his delirious rantings and then, more disturbingly, his mumbled protestations of affection, his urgent demands that she not leave him. At first she thought he was mistaking her for his former mistress, but when she gently tried to tell him she wasn’t Irene, his response was a weak but snappish, “I know it’s you Molly, don’t be moronic. ‘Spect better of you. Brains. Know you have ‘em, use ‘em. Here, I mean. Use ‘em here with me, can’t leave me alone with these idiots...”

His words lapsed into incoherent mumbles as his fever raged. She tried to coax some willowbark tea into him, but managed only a few spoonsful until he knocked her hand away. “Corporal Wiggins!” she called out as she attempted to keep Sherlock from reopening his bandaged wound with his thrashing. The young man came running, pinning Sherlock’s legs while Molly did her best to keep his arms still.   


They held onto him with grim persistence until well after midnight, when his crisis peaked and he suddenly lapsed back into unconsciousness. She allowed Wiggins to retire for the night after that, keeping it to herself that the captain’s sleep was actually a coma  from which he would either recover fully...or never awaken.

She spent her vigil pondering the words spoken in his delirium and bathing his brow with tepid water. And when at last he sighed and stirred, one hand weakly coming to rest over hers, she nearly wept with relief.

He was unquestionably on the mend.

**oOo**

If only a Captain Holmes on the mend were as easy to care for as a Captain Holmes stricken with fever, Molly found herself thinking - with increasing waspishness - during the days that followed.

As she quickly discovered, he was quite possibly the most difficult patient any nurse had ever been forced to attend to. The only positive she could take from the experience was that his wound was healing nicely, although she privately wished more than once that it might heal a tad bit  _ quicker _ . Then she chastised herself for such selfish thoughts; the man had been wounded, after all, and even if it was in a skirmish with her own countrymen, that didn’t make his injury any less painful to endure.

It didn’t help that for the next two weeks the only other people with whom she had more than the most fleeting contact were John and Corporal Wiggins - Billy, as he shyly asked her to call him. She took all her meals inside the quarters she and the captain shared; some of the food she prepared herself and some Wiggins supplied from the officer’s mess. Sherlock, of course, was restricted to a diet of clear broths and weak tea until such time as he regained his strength - another point of contention between them on which John had to arbitrate during one of his hurried visits.

It was hardly the first time she’d been forced to rely on the doctor for assistance. Only days after John had confirmed that nourishing broths were in Sherlock’s best interest - and that he would be given nothing stronger until both he and Molly agreed Sherlock was ready for it - the infuriating man decided to try her patience in a far more worrisome way.

Molly was settled on the front porch, a bowl of peas for shelling on her lap, enjoying the rare autumn sunshine while Sherlock slept. The fear of dysentery had been allayed; it appeared that an improperly prepared bowl of mussels had been the cause of Colonel Moran’s illness. The doctor, however, was still kept busy with the other injured soldiers as well as with the usual complaints and ailments common to the season.

It had been far too long since Molly had enjoyed a civil conversation with him - or with anyone, since her conversations with Sherlock could hardly count as civil! - that didn’t involve dressings and bodily functions. Oh what she wouldn’t give for a good gossip with some of her neighbors back home in Baxton, or a quiet afternoon discussing family or the war with her Aunt Martha.

A stab of homesickness threatened to overwhelm her, and she resolved to write her aunt a letter, even knowing it would be read by Colonel Moran or his abhorrent little spy, Sergeant Moriarty. The man’s threats against her dear aunt were uppermost in her thoughts, second only to her concerns for Sherlock, and then only because he was in more immediate danger - or so she consoled herself when guilt overcame her for not putting her family first.

Molly started, nearly dropping the bowl of peas when she heard what sounded like a muffled bang from inside the house. She hurried inside to discover Sherlock not only out of bed, but kneeling in front of the largest of his three trunks of personal belongings, digging through its contents in search of she knew not what. “Sherlock, what are you doing? Get back into bed this instant!” she exclaimed.

He made no response, nor showed any sign that he’d even heard her as he continued to rummage through the trunk’s contents.

She bit off an angry exclamation when he tossed a handful of cravats and undergarments onto the floor near her feet. “Sherlock, I must insist you get back into bed at once!” she remonstrated, stepping carefully over the discarded articles and reaching down to grasp his shoulder. “You are in no fit condition for this sort of nonsense! You’ll tear your stitches open and risk another fever!”

He glanced up at her finally, a scowl twisting his lips. “Bored!” he exclaimed, then dug further into the trunk. With an exclamation of triumph he pulled out a violin case, caressing it lovingly as he cradled it in his arms. “Just what the doctor ordered.” He gave her a haughty stare. “Do not think to tell me I’ll not be allowed this comfort, as you’ve already forbidden me my pipe or even the luxury of a walk to the privy!”

He made as if to rise, wincing and favoring his injured leg but quickly schooling his expression into one of stoic calm.

Molly stamped her foot angrily. “If you don’t get back into bed this instant, I will fetch Doctor Watson to force you there, don’t think I won’t! And then where will your precious plan be, if he’s seen coming to your aid so frequently?”

That caught his attention; he glared up at her, still cradling the violin in his arms. “If he’s seen coming at your behest, it will only aid in the perception that you have him wrapped around your dainty little finger,” he bit out angrily. “Not that it matters much anymore,” he muttered, wiping impatiently at the sweat that had gathered on his brow. A sweat that should never have formed from so minor an exertion, Molly noted with increased anxiety.

Still, his words puzzled her, and she knelt carefully down beside him. “What do you mean?”

He turned away, lifting his shoulders in a shrug that was no answer. 

“Sherlock?” she said, in softer tones, concerned for both his health and his mental well-being at what seemed to her eyes his very obvious distress. Her concerns for him suddenly turned to concerns for herself as well, and she whispered, “Pray tell me Colonel Moran hasn’t become suspicious of us again!” 

He shook his head, reluctantly turning back to face her. “No, if anything you are safer now than you have been since your arrival here,” he said in a low voice. “Hasn’t John told you yet? No, I suppose he hasn’t, since your discussions have all been about the state of my injury and what a difficult patient I’ve been.” His lips lifted in a mirthless smile as Molly stared at him, uncomprehending. “Your assiduous attentions to me have eased the good colonel’s concerns about  you. Having proven your devotion to me through your nursing skills, it’s likely that you’ll be allowed to return to Baxton once I’m fully recovered, should I request it.”

Molly stared blankly at him, his words so unexpected that she wondered for a moment if she’d imagined them. When they finally sank in, she had to fold her hands together to keep the trembling under control. Likewise she had to take several calming breaths before attempting to speak. “I might be allowed to return home? Truly?”

Sherlock gave a half-shrug. “So it would appear.” He struggled to his feet, batting Molly’s hand away irritably when she tried to assist him. He stood looking down at her for a long moment before speaking again. “I hope you’ll be very happy, Molly Hooper,” he said, then moved stiffly toward the bedroom, violin in hand.

  
Molly refused to allow herself to believe that the sorrowful tune he began to play almost immediately had anything to do with the possibility of her leaving him.


End file.
